


Mergers and Acquisitions

by notlucy



Series: Additional Information [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky allows it, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Peggy and Natasha are just along for the ride, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Spanking, Steve is more extra than usual, Under-negotiated Kink, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky stifled a yawn, only to be brought up short when Steve dropped to one knee. “Wha—?”“This is aggressively heterosexual of me,” Steve muttered. “But uh. Hi.”The grinding gears of Bucky’s brain whirred to life with sudden realization, though his mouth was playing catch up. “Hi. Um. Steve?”“Look, pal, I was gonna do a whole champagne thing, but—”“Are you…?”“Yes.”“Holy shit.”“Buck…”“No. I mean. Go on. Holyshit.Go the fuck on.”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Steve and Bucky are going to the chapel, and they’re going to get married. Meanwhile, Peggy and Natasha…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the sort-of sequel to _[Proprietary Information](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964402/chapters/27054777)!_ This one will make very little sense if you haven't read the original, so if you're new to the universe, I'd be thrilled if you checked that out.
> 
> For those of you who have been with this story since the beginning, consider this a holiday gift and a thank you for all the kudoses, the comments, the bookmarks, and the Tumblr asks. Hope you enjoy!

Bucky was going to die, and that was one hundred percent Steve’s fault.

Hundreds, maybe _thousands_ would mourn him. Gone before his time. Killed by a lethal combination of nausea and his boyfriend’s driving.

Hunched over in the passenger seat of the SUV, he was sure he made a pitiful picture—forehead pressed to his knees, fingers laced together against the back of his skull as he willed his head to stop. Fucking. Pounding.

Steve swerved, and Bucky groaned, increasingly sure he was about to puke on the recently detailed interior because of, like, a squirrel on the road or something.

“Drama queen,” Steve said. Bucky ignored him, until his big, warm hand closed on the back of his neck, squeezing gently. “Sit up. You might feel better.”

“Shuddup.” Bucky wasn’t in the mood for coddling, swatting Steve’s hand away. Although, he wasn’t so proud as to ignore his advice, sitting up bleary-eyed and, yep, hungover. Because _maybe_ he’d stayed out a little too late for Wanda’s birthday the night before. It wasn’t his fault! Wanda’s friends were great! Great, and enabling. And, okay, getting in at four in the morning drunk off his ass hadn’t been his _original_ intention, but it was what had happened.

It just sucked for him that—in the midst of his revels—he’d conveniently forgotten that Steve had been planning this dumb hike forever. Which wasn’t even fair! Because _typically_ when he was hungover, he tended to complain until Steve said they didn’t have to go on whatever outing he had planned. However, that particular morning, Steve had been _weirdly_ insistent about getting out of the city and climbing a goddamn hill.

No excuses had been accepted when, at eight fucking o’clock, Steve had dragged Bucky’s unwilling corpse from their cozy, comfortable bed. Oh, sure, he pretended to be nice, giving him a granola bar and some aspirin, but that sweetness had come alongside being forced into dumb trail pants and a dumb flannel shirt and dumb, dumb, _dumb_ hiking boots.

Bucky, naturally, had been a real champ about it, if by ‘champ’ one meant a real dick. As a result, Steve had been in a shitty mood from the time they pulled out of their building’s private garage until now.

Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair—Steve had been chipper at first. The shitty mood had come once they got to Jersey, and he’d stopped at a gas station to buy Bucky some water while the serviceperson pumped the gas. Bucky, who was fucking _miserable_ , had snapped at him when he’d gotten back to the car, insisting that Steve should have known he wanted Gatorade, not water.

“So fuckin’ charming,” Steve had replied, his mouth set in a thin line, which meant he was actually pissed, not fake-mad-but-still-thinks-Bucky’s-cute-pissed. And yet, despite Bucky’s charmlessness, they had continued onwards, Steve driving them to some unknown destination while Bucky huffed and groaned and bitched and moaned in the seat beside him.

The neck-squeeze had undoubtedly been meant as a peace offering. Bucky didn’t care and pushed him away anyway. Which, yes, he was capable of recognizing that he was being an insufferable little prick, and it was his own fault he was in this situation, and that he’d known full well that Steve had this planned when he went out the night before, but _ugh_. This was his last weekend before beginning his new job, while this particular morning had been his last opportunity to sleep in. Ergo: Steve sucked. So hard.

The new job was a whole other thing—one he’d been putting off thinking about, figuring he’d deal with it when he had to. Because it was his first job in his newly chosen field, and if he thought too much about the fact that they were going to be paying him to actually _help_ people, he felt a little queasy. Granted, it was only an entry-level position at an addiction center, and he’d be about as highly-regarded as an intern, but he wouldn’t have the excuse of actually _being_ an intern to fall back on.

So that was cool. Would be cool. Tomorrow. A whole twenty-two and a half hours away. Plenty of time not to worry about it.

(If he didn’t die of malnutrition and dehydration in the great fucking outdoors before then, that was.)

“Urgh,” he informed Steve, reaching for his water bottle.

“Oh, _now_ he wants water,” Steve muttered.

“I said _urgh_.” Bucky rolled his eyes and uncapped the bottle, taking a long swallow before belching a belch that tasted like his last lemon drop shot mixed with the slice of pizza he’d stopped for on the way home.

“You’re the height of class, Buck.”

“Fuck off. I don’t feel good.”

“No shit, you don’t. Thanks for that, by the way. Really makes me feel like you care about the stuff I plan—”

“You plan hikes all the time,” Bucky snapped. “Why’s this one so fuckin’ important?”

Meaning: why the hell hadn’t his usual tricks for getting out of it worked? Bucky was stuck on that, turning it over in his head. Shit, he’d done all his sweet talking. Coaxing and cuddling and please-please-Daddy, which usually got Steve back into bed, forgoing all plans for the day so he could rub Bucky’s back all gentle and slow until he felt better before fucking him into the mattress. Ugh! That would have been so good! That would have been a _perfect_ Sunday, in fact, because they could have fallen back asleep, and then woken up at noon. If they’d done that, Bucky wouldn’t have felt bad at _all,_ and probably Steve would have hand-fed him breakfast.

Life was monumentally unfair.

“Because it is,” Steve said through gritted teeth, not bothering to throw a glance his way.

“You’re _mean_ ,” Bucky replied, before kicking his feet up on the dashboard just to piss Steve off.

Steve stared straight ahead and, somewhat disconcertingly, didn’t say another word. Suited Bucky fine, and he turned to stare resolutely out the window as they continued their journey—New Jersey back into New York state, and where the happy fuck were they going, exactly? The moon?

Finally, after an additional forty-five minutes of silence, Steve took an exit ramp off the parkway and turned onto a smaller road.

“Are we there yet?” Bucky whined because he wanted to whine about something.

“No,” Steve said, his tone coming across as, frankly, condescending.

So, Bucky reacted with the utmost maturity. “Uuuuuuuuuuuugh, Stuh-eeeeeeeve!”

Hands tightening on the wheel, Steve pressed down on the accelerator. “Sorry my plans are so inconvenient for you, Buck.”

“Don’t…” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Quit. You _always_ let me get out of hikes when I feel bad. Don’t pull some wounded bird crap.”

“I don’t _always_ ,” he frowned. “Anyway, I thought you liked hikes.”

“I do. When I don’t feel like shit.”

“It’s not my fault you stayed out all night.”

The argument, having come full-circle, was now dull. Bucky didn't bother to respond with more than a grunt before leaning his head against the window, closing his eyes to shut out the blur of passing scenery. By the time Steve began to slow the car, he'd fallen into a doze, and as he came around, they were turning into a sparsely populated parking lot—four whole cars, and a sign pointing the way to the trailhead.

Steve killed the engine and got out without a glance in Bucky’s direction.

Oops. He was really mad.

Bucky opened his door, sliding to the ground with a sigh before trudging to the back, where Steve was taking things out of Bucky’s pack and putting them into his own.

“Wouldn’t want you to have to carry anything heavy,” Steve muttered, a box of energy bars disappearing inside his bag.

“Don’t be such a…” He trailed off, lacking the quick wits needed to finish that sentence with appropriate snark. He grabbed at his bag instead, content to let his physicality do the talking. Steve, predictably, yanked back, which led to them wrestling over it until Steve had him pinned against the side of the car.

“Let me fuckin’ carry your shit,” he snapped, leaning in close and saying it all sexy and growly and _whatever_.

"Fine," Bucky relented, squirming in his grip. "How long is this hike, anyway?" If it were short, he'd be more likely to live.

“Four and a half miles, out and back,” Steve replied, kissing his sweaty forehead before stepping back.

“Four _miles_?" he gasped, even though on a good day, he could easily do twelve. "Steve, that's _forever_!”

(Yes, he sounded like a five-year-old. But Jesus Christ! His head hurt!)

Steve shrugged, stuffing the final few items from Bucky’s bag into his own. “It’s steep, too, you overgrown infant.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve replied, swinging his now-stuffed pack over his shoulder. “I guess I really wanted to haul your ass out of bed and listen to you bitch at me for two goddamn hours before getting the pleasure of dragging you up a mountain.”

“It’s a _mountain_?” he screeched, choosing to ignore just how very accurate Steve’s assessment was, and how much of a pill he knew he was being.

“Yes.” The word was spoken through gritted teeth as Steve reached up to press the button that would close the trunk. As angry gestures went, it wasn’t quite so effective as an old-fashioned slam, but Bucky could tell it was the button pressing equivalent. “Let’s go.”

Bucky sighed, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his flannel as he trailed behind Steve. “It’s hot,” he grumped, no fewer than twenty feet beyond the trailhead. “Why’d you make me wear this?”

“Bucky, I swear to God. Just don’t talk,” Steve said stiffly, stopping at a signpost to check which blazes they were following before setting off.

The trail, being a climb, was fucking brutal. It was a series of switchbacks, in fact, with minimal level ground. Whoever had decided Everest was the tallest mountain on earth had apparently overlooked the Hudson Valley, Bucky decided as he tripped his way along, because nothing had ever, ever, _ever_ been more arduous than that trail.

They were nearly a mile in when the combination of the blazing sun and his lack of sleep began making him genuinely nauseous. At first, he only fell behind by a few feet. Then a few more. Then more and more until he was about twenty yards behind Steve, who was trucking on like a goddamned mountain goat, holding onto his stupid hiking poles. (God, what a dork. Bucky's poles were collapsed and tucked very securely into Steve's pack, should he want them, which he did _not_ , thanks so much for asking.)

It didn’t take long for the nausea to reach its inevitable conclusion. Bucky had just enough time to step off the trail and into the underbrush before puking the worst excesses of his evening onto the forest floor. So, that sucked.

“Gross,” he muttered, spitting out the last of the sick, bent double with his hands on his knees. This— _this!_ was why he didn’t drink like a college kid anymore.

There was a crunching of brush behind him, and a hand came to rest on the small of his back. “Hey,” Steve said. “Sweetheart…”

“M’okay,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“How about you drink some water?”

Bucky did as he was told, swishing the first swig around to clean his mouth before spitting it onto the ground, then taking a proper drink. It was perfection—fucking nectar of the gods right there.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Steve, who seemed to have given up on hectoring, pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”

“I feel a little better now,” he mumbled, which was mostly true. Puking always helped.

“I’m glad.” Steve hesitated. “I really want to see the top, Buck.”

Damn it, Steve was appealing to his better nature—what a low blow. Bucky sighed, reaching for the pack of mints Steve had pulled from his pocket, popping one into his mouth. “Is this a new fetish? Like, are you getting off on how sweaty and miserable you’re making me right now?”

“No.” Steve pressed another kiss to his forehead. Crap, Bucky was very nearly charmed. “I’m not, I swear. It’s just...important to me that we finish this hike.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Shitty answer,” he muttered, doing his best to hide his smile. “You’re supposed to be _communicating_ better.”

“Yeah, well, you were supposed to be home by two,” he countered. “Come on. We’re almost halfway up.”

“You’re lying.”

“Little bit, yeah.”

“Fine,” Bucky grunted, bumping his head against Steve’s chin before they set off again.

It wasn’t all bad. Bucky’s head was clearer now, and his stomach wasn’t so full of bile and misery. A breeze had kicked up, too, and having that blowing on his face was almost pleasant. The climb was still relentless, and his head still hurt, but he could manage. For his part, Steve held his hand and tugged him along, which was charitable, in a Steve-ish way.

Plus, okay, when they finally reached the summit? Shit. That was something—the whole Hudson Valley spread out before them, serene and perfect under the midday sun. Bucky wasn't going to go full Thoreau on it or anything, but it was maybe. Possibly. A _tiny_ bit worth the trek.

“Wow,” he managed as they approached the edge of the overlook.

“Pretty, huh?” Steve said. “Sam told me it was nice.”

"Sam's smart," Bucky agreed, clambering on one of the massive rocks that dotted the ground. He turned in a circle to take in the view, glad for their temporary solitude. No doubt other hikers would arrive eventually, but he'd take tranquility where he could get it.

Steve followed him, standing beside the boulder and looking up with a smirk. “Having fun?”

“Yeah. Hey, I’m taller than you when I’m up here,” he said, reaching over to pat the top of Steve’s head.

“Cause you’re so short normally.”

“Whatever. Come up here.”

"Nah," Steve shrugged, which wasn't like him. Usually, if he could do something slightly reckless in the name of superiority, he was all over it.

"Suit yourself." Bucky stuck out his tongue before turning away, stretching his arms above his head and yawning mightily, hoping to make Steve laugh. No response. Whatever, he could enjoy the majesty of nature on his own. So he did, for like two minutes, until his stomach growled. "Did you bring actual food or just granola bars?"

Steve didn’t answer, and Bucky looked back to find him gone. Huh. Twisting around to see where he’d gotten to, he discovered him some twenty feet away, rucksack at his feet, wearing a groove into the ground as he paced.

“Steve?”

“Huh?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Hear what?”

“I asked if you brought food.”

“Food?”

“Yeah, like to eat?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, there’s food. But uh. Can you come over here for a second first?”

“Ohhhhh-kay,” Bucky agreed, raising an eyebrow as he sat down on the rock and scooted off the edge with utmost dignity. Walking towards him, he stifled another yawn, only to be brought up short when Steve dropped to one knee. “Wha—?”

“This is aggressively heterosexual of me,” Steve muttered. “But uh. Hi.”

The grinding gears of Bucky’s brain whirred to life with sudden realization, though his mouth was playing catch up. “Hi. Um. Steve?”

“Look, pal, I was gonna do a whole champagne thing, but—”

“Are you…?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.”

“Buck…”

“No. I mean. Go on. Holy _shit_. Go the fuck on.”

Steve cleared his throat, a red flush creeping up his neck as he offered Bucky a half-smile. "So. Okay. Bucky. You are. Um. Well. As you know, we talked about this. Doing this, that is, after you finished school. But I wanted to do something special when I asked. Because we always...going on hikes is special for us. And um. I thought we'd come up here, and I'd ask you if you would—" he blanched, his eyes going wide. "Ah fuck, I forgot the middle part. I had a whole speech—"

Bucky bit his lip to hide his grin, raising an eyebrow as he took two steps closer, resisting the urge to fall to the ground and kiss him all over his ridiculous face, lest he further delay the question. “I don’t mind.”

“No?” Steve smiled. “Look, we both know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and you happened to me twice. I’m just the putz who’s lucky enough to have you. That’s it, really. I love you, and I’d really like to get married to you. If you want to. We don’t have to, though. We could—”

“Steve,” Bucky laughed, his hangover utterly cured as he dropped to his knees. “Yes. Please. Fuck. If I’d known...I didn’t know you were gonna do a big...oh my God, I’ve been such a miserable shit to you all morning!”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, shifting his weight from one knee to two before leaning forward to wrap Bucky in a hug. “All the same, you’re _my_ miserable shit.”

"Fuck," Bucky repeated with a grin, tucking his face against the crook of Steve's neck. Like _hell_ he was gonna cry. “You should have told me!”

“And spoil the surprise? Deprive myself of the pleasure of your company?”

“Yes!” came his muffled response. “I woulda been so nice! I wouldn’t have gone out last night—”

“Nah,” Steve shrugged, rubbing his back. “I like this better.”

Bucky snorted, pulling away enough that he could wipe his eyes (which: _allergies_ , not crying). “Do you have like, a ring?”

Steve shook his head, taking hold of Bucky’s hands and squeezing tight. “No. I didn’t want to presume anything. We can figure out how we want to do that together. I thought maybe we could each have one, or do something non-traditional or...whatever you want, really.”

Thoughtful, but that was Steve all over. Thinking through every tiny, meticulous detail. God, it must have been murder on him to have this silent, stroppy version of Bucky trailing him all morning. No doubt his plan had involved a cheery boyfriend skipping along at his side, so the fact that he’d been able to roll with Bucky’s mood made him all the more lovable. Who said a leopard couldn’t change its spots?

“We’ll figure it out,” he agreed, leaning in to kiss the tip of Steve’s nose. “I’d kiss you better than that, but I probably have puke breath.”

“Yup.”

“Who says romance is dead?” Bucky grinned.

“Definitely not me.”

“When we get home,” he promised. “I’ll kiss you double.”

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Steve said, brushing some hair from his eyes. "And ah...don't think you're not in some serious shit for the insubordination and the attitude."

“Oh?” Bucky quirked a brow, scooting closer. “Want me to keep it up?”

“Depends,” Steve smirked.

“On?”

“How wedded you are to being able to sit comfortably on your first day of work.”

“Ha. Touché.”

“That’d be the general area where I aim the strap, yeah.”

“Ugh, Steve.” Puns. What a jerk. “I love you.”

“Love you right back. How’s your stomach, still weird, or are you actually hungry?”

“Actually hungry,” Bucky grinned. “That’s what I was asking when you like...sneak-proposed.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t blame a guy for getting distracted.”

Steve hadn't been lying about the food—there was plenty of it, tucked into various containers stuffed into his pack. He'd even gone so far as to bring things that would be easy on the stomach after a night of heavy drinking. Bucky wasn't sure if that was forethought, or if Steve had scrambled to put it together this morning, but either way, it was thoughtful and delicious.

As they ate, a few other hikers passed through—a couple, some solo trekkers, and two families that were tackling the trail together. By the time Steve and Bucky were packing up to head back down, only the families remained at the summit. There were three kids between them—a toddler, along with a boy and a girl that were maybe four and six. Bucky kept an eye on them as he stuffed his flannel into Steve's bag, content to make the return trip in a t-shirt.

“Wedding first,” Steve teased when he caught him looking.

“What!” he protested, handing him the bag.

“You’ve got baby fever.”

“I don’t!”

“Yeah, but you do.”

“I can’t help it if my biological clock is ticking,” he deadpanned. “I’m elderly.”

“Talk to me when you’re my age, pal.”

“By the time I’m your age,” he countered. “We’ll have kids.”

“That—” Steve rolled his eyes. “Is not the point.”

“But I’m ri-ight,” he sing-songed.

“Jesus. I liked you better when you were crabby.”

“Who says _crabby_?” Bucky snorted, which opened up a whole new world of debate as they headed back down the trail.

Going down took less time than going up, although Bucky nearly fell twice on a couple of the steeper sections. Determined to maintain his dignity, he ignored Steve’s queries about whether or not he wanted his poles. Because no, Steve, he absolutely did _not_.

They were back in the car and halfway home when Bucky was hit by a stroke of genius.

“Hey, Steve?” he asked.

“What’s up?”

“I have a wedding present for you.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughed.

“Yup.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna let you plan the _entire_ thing. Right down to every last weird detail that I know you’ve already got your heart set on. Like, whatever weirdness you’ve been Pinteresting or scrapbooking. The perfect shade of fuchsia for the flowers, or like...handmade primrose doilies.”

Steve’s mouth twitched, fingers flexing on the wheel. “First of all, I don’t _scrapbook_. Second of all, it’s your wedding, too. You ought to be involved—”

"I'll be involved," he shrugged. "As much as you need me to be. I'm happy to taste cakes or look at invitation paper, or whatever people do for weddings. But the details—that's all you. Go as big as you want. I know you'll love it, and I'm happiest when I can make you happy. So, you know. Be your best Bridezilla self. Or Groomzilla. Or whatever."

Steve thought that over, then reached out to squeeze Bucky’s knee. “I’m glad I’m marrying you, Buck.”

“Aw,” Bucky smiled. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kelsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelsey_Fantasy) for the fabulous banner at the top of this chapter. As always, I could not do this without my betas - [chemegeek](https://chemegeek.tumblr.com), who has been this story's biggest cheerleader, and [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com), who endures these two and all their history for me, despite none of this being her kink. A special thanks also to [ellebeesknees](https://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com) for reading this through in its completely unbeta'd state.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Peggy do lunch.

Twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents.

Natasha stood in front of the sticky-keyed ATM and grimaced, the number on the screen telling her no more than she already knew. Twenty-three dollars. Seventy-five cents. The same amount that had been in her account when she'd last checked two days ago. But hey, wasn't that the power of positive thinking? For all she knew, some benevolent, rich fucker of a fairy had dropped ten grand into her checking account in the interim.

Not so much.

And the thing about that dangerously low balance? It wasn’t going to grow much until the end of the month, because UberEats payouts weren’t quite the same as what she earned for her regular gigs, which paid on a regular schedule.

Shit. She hated money. The lack of money. The frustration of working her ass off seven days a week so she could have the pleasure of scraping the bottom of the barrel. Then, there were the emergencies—the tiny little granules of crap that rolled downhill, snowballing until they hit her in the face with their dank, fetid nastiness. An unexpected illness, an injury, a change in life circumstances.

Like, oh, say the circumstancein which her live-in girlfriend of the past two years had recently left for the greener pastures of graduate school in Australia. Goodbye, Dorothy. Goodbye, yellow brick road. Dottie's excellent adventure to Oz had left Natasha with the responsibility of finding another roommate or losing her lease because her landlord was more of a slumlord who didn't care about her plight. Mostly, he cared about getting paid. The full amount. Every time.

Natasha had made rent in August. September?

Fucking twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents.

It wasn’t as though she was living an extravagant life. Cup o’noodles, baby, unless she was having lunch with Bucky, who always paid. Not because he knew about her situation, but because he was _rich_ now. Which was great! Except for the times when he seemed oblivious to the fact that she was less-than.

Although, that was an oversimplification, and not entirely fair to Bucky, who would have been sympathetic had she informed him of her situation. Which she hadn’t. Because Bucky didn’t pay half the rent on that apartment anymore and hadn’t in a long time. Because Bucky had moved on. Grown-up. Gotten his shit together in a way Natasha had yet to do.

Plus, he was getting married.

Which was great! Genuinely great. She knew he and Steve had been talking about it for a while, and when he’d called her with the news, she’d congratulated him fifty different ways. But Jesus, there was no wayshe was bringing his mood down with her sob story about all the vaguely creepy people she’d been interviewing as roommates. Not with him chattering on about the plans Steve was mercifully going to make, how they were going to steer away from _super_ traditional vows, and how they weren’t doing best men or women, but how he’d really, really like it if she stood up there as his best friend, instead.

Natasha had said yes, of course. How could she refuse?

The actual _logistics_ of being said ‘best friend’ had escaped her, however, until three days prior, when she’d received an email from one Peggy Carter—a name that had never before been in her inbox, but one that made her sit up a bit straighter when she saw it.

> _Natasha,_
> 
> _Not sure if B has mentioned, but I’m throwing them an engagement party. Date TBD. B indicated he thought you’d want to be involved. Hope that’s true. If it is, let’s have lunch and discuss logistics; my availability is below._

The brief message had been followed by four specific dates and times over the next week, then a very formal, professional signature.

So that was a thing: lunch, with Peggy Carter. Knowing she had twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents to her name.

Fuck. She didn’t even want to _go_ , and now she was stuck staring down her bank balance in an attempt to fritter away the twenty-odd minutes she needed to waste between the end of the bullshit restorative yoga class she’d taught that morning and meeting Peggy at some overpriced bougie restaurant.

Maybe Peggy would pay? Except: nope. Wasn’t going to happen.

Because the whole thing with Peggy Carter was that she and Natasha had a _history_. Not a great one, mind, but history all the same. The holiday party flirtation of several years prior—Peggy in that low-cut red dress and heels, her accent sending Natasha into a full-on crush. She’d always been a sucker for an English broad, boy howdy, and so she had given as good as she’d got, bantering with Peggy until Bucky broke things up by getting so drunk he kissed his boss.

And they all knew how _that_ particular grand romance had worked out.

Natasha and Peggy, though? They’d never had more than a flirtation. A few stolen moments, Peggy’s attendance at one of Natasha’s performances, and a coffee date that had ended with a peck on the cheek. Nothing more, though Natasha had certainly been interested—Peggy was older, with an air of mystery about her; polished and put together in a way she envied. Plus, she was _experienced_. Natasha didn’t know the whole of it, but she knew that Peggy and Steve had been an item and that Steve had some kinky proclivities. Granted, she only knew that because Bucky confided everything in her, but it still got her brain twisting and turning around the notion of what Peggy would be like in bed. Natasha had always been drawn to some of the seamier, sexier things available to her online, and knowing that Bucky was with someone who was helping him dip a toe into those waters? At first, she was a mite jealous, before remembering that Peggy existed, and if their flirtation was any indication, she might be open to helping Natasha explore a few proclivities of her own.

But before any of that could happen, the proverbial shit had hit the fan. Peggy had fired Bucky, having jumped to a conclusion with lightning speed, despite having no proof. Natasha, loyal to a fault, hadn’t quite forgiven her for the entire affair, though her rational mind understood that Peggy had just been doing her job. Plus, in the aftermath, she’d owned her mistake and apologized to Bucky. Funny how Bucky had forgiven her, but Natasha hadn’t.

And if she was honest with herself—which, _whew,_ always a dangerous option—Natasha might have had to admit that it was easier to be angry with Peggy than with Steve, even though Steve had been Bucky's goddamn boyfriend when the entire business with the phone went down. If anybody deserved her ire, it was probably the golden boy, but the problem with hating _Steve_ was that Bucky was in love with him. Living with him. Marrying him.

Steve was a part of Natasha’s life in a way Peggy wasn’t, ergo, Peggy caught the blame. Because it was simpler to be chilly and austere with someone she saw a couple times a year at a holiday party or a graduation celebration rather than the guy she saw every other week for dinner.

The system had been working flawlessly until Steve and Bucky decided to get married, bringing Peggy into her orbit in a way she hadn’t been before. 

Checking her phone, Natasha saw it was 11:58, which meant she could leave the bodega. It would take her six minutes to walk, putting her arrival at the restaurant a whole four minutes later than when they’d agreed to meet. Deliberately. Because fuck punctuality when it came to Peggy Carter.

Any upper hand Natasha might have been hoping for with her tardiness dissipated the moment she saw Peggy sitting at one of the outdoor tables, looking immaculate in a white silk blouse, scarf around her neck, hair perfectly coiffed. It was a breezy day, yet she seemed unfazed; wind wouldn’t dare ruffle Peggy’s feathers.

Natasha, meanwhile, had a hole in the crotch of her yoga pants which she’d only discovered in the bathroom _after_ flashing her panties to fifteen paying customers. There were permanent sweat stains around the armholes of her tank top, and her sneakers hadn’t exactly been cleaned after her last muddy jog through Prospect Park. Plus, post-class, she hadn’t bothered to wash her hair or clean up or even put on mascara. At the time it had seemed like a fun little ‘fuck you,’ but now, as Peggy looked up and saw her, lifting one manicured hand to wave, she wished she’d bothered.

Schooling her expression into one of indifference, Natasha acknowledged Peggy with a nod and made her way to the table. As she did, Peggy got to her feet. To absolutely no-one’s surprise, her blouse was perfectly paired with the wide-legged late-summer trousers she was sporting. God, she looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of one of those high-end catalogs that Natasha’s mother used to hoard in the drawer under the coffee table, all glossy pages and pleasant, approachable models that had served as primo masturbatory fodder for baby gay Nat at the tender age of twelve.

"Hi," Peggy said, the awkward moment all but guaranteed as she took a step forward as if to hug her, only to stop when Natasha twisted her body away and pulled out a chair.

“Hi.” Natasha sat, ignoring the scent of Peggy’s floral perfume, tossing her gym bag to the ground.

Peggy, smile fading slightly, took her seat. “It’s lovely to see you. I can’t remember the last time—”

“Bucky’s graduation party,” Natasha said, reaching for her menu so she’d have something to look at besides Peggy’s face. Only, what the actual fuck? Twenty-one dollars for a _salad_? It was lettuce!

“That’s right,” Peggy said. “Have you had a good summer?”

Oh yeah—nothing like being young, single, broke, and losing the game that was the gig economy. “Yup. You?”

“Busy.”

“Mmm,” Natasha nodded, too engrossed in calculating prices in her head to ask a follow-up question. The sides were cheaper than the salads—not much, but marginally. This wasn’t the sort of place that had a bread basket; rich people restaurants gave nothing away for free. Hell, they were probably charging for the water.

"...this morning?" Peggy queried, and whatever Natasha had missed had apparently been a question.

She looked up, tamping down on the slightly guilty feeling in her gut. Nothing to feel bad about; she didn't owe Peggy a thing. "What?"

“I asked if you’d just come from teaching.”

“Oh. Yeah. Restorative yoga. It’s glorified napping for most of them.”

“Sounds about my speed—perhaps I ought to take a class.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

One of Peggy’s perfectly sleek eyebrows raised, and it was hard to tell if she was suppressing a smile or a frown. “Oh no?”

“Nah,” Natasha shrugged. “Bunch of stay-at-home moms who don’t _actually_ hang out with their kids. They pawn them off on nannies all day and then come to my classes and complain about how busy they are.”

“Ah,” Peggy said, placing her menu on the table and folding her hands on top. “I didn’t take you for the judgmental sort.”

Natasha leaned forward, her temper flaring because Peggy wasn’t in any position to judge her...judginess. Fuck. “I can’t help it if it’s true.”

“Indeed.”

Christ, had Peggy always been so smug? Or was Natasha being overly sanctimonious about her clients?

No, it was Peggy. Peggy was definitely the smug one. And so what if Natasha liked the way her mouth turned down while she did it?

“You don’t—” Natasha began, a righteous speech about what Peggy did and didn’t know forming itself in her mind, just as a shadow fell across her lap, jarring her from her thoughts. Glancing up, she found what could only be an underemployed Tisch graduate standing with a StarkPad, ready to take their order.

God, maybe she _was_ judgemental.

(But twenty-one dollars was still too much to pay for a salad.)

“Can I get something to drink for you ladies?” he asked, which caused Natasha to reverse course on her attitude: she hated the word ‘ladies,’ and she was glad this guy would probably never find work as an actor.

“I’ll have a glass of the Latour burgundy,” Peggy said smoothly.

“Water’s fine,” Natasha said with as much grace as she could muster in front of a woman who had _definitely_ just ordered a glass of wine that cost more than what Natasha had in her checking account.

“Very good,” said dinner-theater. “Are you ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?”

“I’m ready,” Peggy said. “Natasha?”

(Unfair, really, the way her name sounded in Peggy’s mouth. Nah-tash-ah. Three crisp syllables, tripping off her tongue. So different from the Nuh-tah-shuh of an American pronunciation.)

“You go first,” she said, figuring she could make her choice while Peggy ordered.

“I’ll have the snapper,” Peggy said, which bought Natasha all of one and a half seconds. Crap.

“I’ll…” Natasha, who was usually good under pressure, caved to capitalism. “The um. Mesclun salad.” Twenty-one dollars. Plus tax. Plus tip. She’d have to put it on a credit card. Fuck.

The waiter disappeared with their orders, leaving them sitting in awkward silence, their earlier disagreement not entirely forgotten. When that silence was broken, it was simultaneously, with Natasha's, "so, Bucky and Steve—" clashing against Peggy's, "obviously, there's an elephant in the room."

They both stopped short, each with a small smile on their face. Peggy, sensing her moment, spoke first.

“Please, go ahead.”

“No,” Natasha shook her head. Whatever she’d been about to say would have been inane blather put forth in an attempt to change the subject. Peggy’s sounded much more like a conversation they needed to have, loath as she was to have it. “You go.”

Peggy gave her another tight-lipped smile. “Yes, well. You and I are going to be spending a bit of time together, and there’s obviously some...lingering tension between us.”

“Is there?” Natasha replied, going for blasé in the hopes of staving off her actual feelings on the matter.

“Don’t be obtuse, it’s not becoming.”

Natasha scowled, unused to being so easily read. “I just don’t see that there’s tension. We both know where we stand.”

“Do we?” Peggy shrugged. “I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I kicked your puppy in the interest of protecting my own, and I don’t think you’ve ever forgiven me for that.”

“I—”

“Despite the fact,” Peggy pressed on, “that my puppy was the one that pissed on the rug in the first place, and was decidedly more deserving of a kick.”

Natasha wasn’t going to smile. “Steve would hate that metaphor.”

“Probably,” Peggy agreed. “But the point remains—you don’t like me, despite the fact that the entire fiasco was well over two years ago. Bucky’s moved on, and I want to know why you still—”

"Because you guys treated him terribly," Natasha snapped, shrugging. "And that’s...he's..." she struggled to find the words, because how could she convey just how much Bucky meant to her? How he'd saved her from the depths of certain sorrows in college, and helped her see the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel? He was her best friend; the closest thing she had to a brother.

“Yes, we did,” Peggy agreed as Natasha searched for words.

“Well. It’s. His whole life could have been ruined, and—”

“I’m well aware.”

“And now…” she snorted. “Well, he’s _with_ Steve now. Forever. So what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

Peggy didn’t respond right away; instead, she sat back, presumably giving herself time to collect her thoughts. Natasha had forgotten that about her—she was more careful with her words than Steve, who tended to speak first and think after.

“I was angry with myself for a long time over what I did to Bucky,” Peggy began. “I still am, to an extent, though I think he’s recovered admirably and—” she paused as the waiter returned with her wine. “Thank you.” A beat, allowing him to leave, before she resumed. “I’m able to compartmentalize that guilt and that anger because he’s happy, and he’s loved, and he’s forgiven me.”

“I know, but—”

"That said," Peggy continued, cutting her off gently. "I have a friendship with Bucky now. Outside of Steve, outside of what happened. You, on the other hand? You seem to have no interest in mending what was broken. And that makes me sad because I quite liked you. You're good fun, and you're talented, and I honestly thought you were charming. So I was hurt, when Bucky and Steve reconciled, and you acted as though you couldn't be arsed to make more than perfunctory small talk with me. Which is...well, I suppose I'm guilty of projecting certain expectations onto you, and that's not fair, either."

Natasha absorbed as much of that as she could. She hadn’t realized her cold-shouldering had been less than mutual, nor had she realized how much Peggy had thought of her and their friendship. It had only been a flirtation, hadn’t it? “I ah—” she began, before clearing her throat. “I figured you didn’t want to talk to me, either.”

“I was trying to respect your boundaries,” Peggy admitted with a wry smile. “Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I saw planning this party as an opportunity to ah, make amends?”

“Um, how?”

“By showing you that I’m not the monster you’ve made me out to be.”

Natasha scoffed. “I don’t think you’re a _monster_.”

“No?”

“No! I think. I mean. What you did to Bucky was awful.”

“It was awful.”

“And unfair.”

“That, too.”

Natasha scowled. “Would you _stop_?”

“Stop what?” Peggy asked, the very picture of angelic innocence as she sipped her wine. 

“Stop acknowledging that what you did was wrong and that you accept responsibility. People aren’t supposed to do that. It’s _annoying_.”

Peggy set her glass down and leaned forward. “Would you prefer I continue to place blame where it doesn’t belong?”

“No, but—”

“Natasha,” she sighed, “I am so sorry for what I did to Bucky. He knows that, and I think you know it, too. But sitting here, I’m realizing that throughout that entire affair, I never apologized to _you_ , for spoiling whatever burgeoning friendship we had. So, I’m sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have assumed forgiveness by proxy.”

“Shit,” Natasha muttered, folding her arms across her chest. “Why do you have to be so _nice_?”

“I’m not nice,” Peggy replied evenly. “But I am capable of admitting when I’ve fucked up. Granted, I wasn’t always, but life has a funny way of teaching you lessons, and—”

“Did you figure out how to admit it before or after you were with Steve?” Natasha blurted, unable to keep herself from one last dig.

Peggy snorted. “After, and that’s a rude question.”

“Wow. So when you two were together, did you have competitions to see who could be more of a self-righteous jerk?”

“Christ,” Peggy said, a genuinely pleased grin spreading across her face. “Were you always this tactless, or am I just lucky?”

“Little from column A, little from column B.”

“Steve,” Peggy replied primly. “And I. Were never wrong. Either of us. At any time. In the history of the universe, or our relationship.”

“Uh...huh.”

“Which is why he’s marrying Bucky,” she said with a smirk. “Now. If you decide to accept my apology, do you think we might start over again? We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and—”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what it means. The starting over part.”

Peggy hesitated. “I’d like us to be friends. Same as we were before.”

When it came down to making the choice, Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Alright,” she said, extending her hand for Peggy to shake. “Forgiven.”

Peggy reached out and shook, though before she pulled back, her index finger brushed ever-so-lightly across the inside of Natasha’s wrist, sending a shiver down her spine. Friendship with Peggy still came with a side of flirting, it seemed.

Not that she minded.

“Now,” Peggy said with a smile. “Shall we plan this party?”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, they'd planned as much as they were going to during a single lunch. They had a location (Peggy's apartment, which was big enough for everyone), a couple options for catering, and a tentative guest list (close friends and family only, which meant no Peter Quill, to Natasha's relief. That fucking guy—she didn't get what Bucky got out of that friendship at _all_. Except for weed. Maybe it was the weed? But surely Steve had access to the good stuff.) Peggy was going to handle the catering arrangements, while Natasha had volunteered to put together music and activities that weren’t, in her words, completely fucking lame. The final decision was the date, which they couldn’t confirm without talking to Bucky and Steve.

“I can’t imagine any of us are going to have a free weekend before the end of October,” Peggy murmured as she checked the calendar on her phone.

Natasha wasn’t going to mention that her own calendar was pretty free and fucking clear on the weekends unless she had a class to teach. Gigging meant setting her own schedule, which was both a curse and a blessing: it left her a lot of freedom, but also plenty of time to be lonely and sad about her breakup.

“We could do a Halloween theme?” she offered, mostly as a joke. “Have everyone wear costumes?”

Peggy smirked. “Steve would hate that.”

“I know.”

“That said…remind me to show you my costume closet when you come over.”

“You have a costume closet?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, scandalized, giving Natasha the sort of exaggerated, cheesy wink that made her friendship with Steve ‘Cornball’ Rogers make total sense.

“Uh huh,” Natasha laughed. “I bet you’ve got all sorts of ridiculous…” she trailed off as the waiter came by to drop the check on the table. Peggy reached out a hand to take it, and Natasha swallowed hard. “Oh, um…”

“Mmm?”

“Can I uh, how should I pay you? I can Venmo, or…”

“What’s Ven-moh?”

Fucking of _course_. “It’s an app? You can send money through it, and I don’t carry cash, so—”

“Ah,” Peggy shrugged and waved her hand. “I invited you. You can treat me another time.”

As a peace offering, Natasha couldn’t afford to pass it up. Not with a twenty-one dollar salad on the bill. “That’s...thank you. Definitely. I’ll get you next time.”

Peggy smiled, passing her card to the waiter when he came by again. “You’ll have the chance—we probably ought to touch base again in a week or so.”

“Touch base?” Natasha grinned. “That’s so fucking corporate!”

“Christ.”

“Do you even _know_ baseball?”

Peggy went slightly red, her spine straightening. “The vernacular creeps in after you’ve seen it in enough tiresome emails. And of course I know baseball. I’ve lived in this country nearly twenty years, and Steve—”

“Fair,” Natasha nodded. “Can’t date the world’s biggest Mets fan without—”

“Learning to love the Yankees,” Peggy said with a conspiratorial smile.

“You _don’t_.”

“Oh, I do. At first, it was only to wind him up, but now I find myself drawn to the pinstripes.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“So I’ve been told,” she said, reaching for her wine glass one last time. “Oh, I meant to ask. How’s ah...Dorothy, wasn’t it?”

Natasha was surprised she remembered; Dottie had been at Steve and Bucky’s holiday extravaganza the prior December, but that was the only occasion she could think of where Peggy might have met her. “It’s Dottie,” she corrected. “We ah. Well. She just started grad school.”

“Congratulations—”

“In Australia.”

Peggy frowned. “Ah, gosh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m alright,” she said. “It’s been a month. So I’m not—” she shrugged. She wasn’t going to cry over Dottie again; she’d run out of tears for her weeks ago. The depression and the ice cream, however? Still fair game.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy repeated, leaning forward and laying her hand atop Natasha’s. “That’s rubbish. You two were together a long time, weren’t you?”

“Almost three years, give or take,” she mumbled.

“And you lived together?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, Natasha,” she sighed, giving her hand the slightest of squeezes. “If you ever need to talk—”

“Bucky’s a therapist,” she said, finishing the thought. Of all the people in the world she would seek out for a conversation about her sad-sack personal life, Peggy Carter was near the bottom of the pile. Mostly because Peggy was so...Peggy-ish. Natasha didn’t do so well with vulnerability in front of women like that—the ones she wasn’t sure if she wanted to sleep with or set up a shrine to.

“Right,” Peggy agreed, giving her hand one final pat before pulling away. “Of course he is.”

“But that’s...nice of you to offer. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Mercifully, the waiter chose that moment to return with the receipt. Natasha caught a glimpse of the number as Peggy added a tip that was well over twenty percent. Subtracting the salad, the glass of wine and the snapper had totaled more than seventy-five dollars. Which: Jesus. It was fucking fish!

The bill having been settled, they both stood. Natasha’s foot, which had been bothering her in class, was now downright sore, and she was looking forward to getting home and soaking it in a tub of Epsom salts. Peggy, meanwhile, was probably going back to work.

As they stepped away from the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, Peggy stopped her with a hand on her wrist. The gesture caught Natasha off-guard, and she stumbled a little as she was pulled into a brief hug, followed by a continental kiss on each cheek.

“I’m glad we caught up,” Peggy said, stepping back.

“I. Yeah. Me, too.”

“I’ll check my calendar and be in touch.”

“That um. Perfect. Thank you, for lunch. I’ll um, definitely pay you back next time…”

Peggy smiled, cocking her head to the side in a way sent a tremor of...something through Natasha, head to toes. “Yes,” she agreed. “I’m sure you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this bit of Natasha POV! The boys are back in the next chapter with Steve and a scene that has been...a top request for this universe for some time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky make plans; Bucky tries something new.

“What do you think about Scotland?”

Bucky looked up from the case file he’d been reviewing, a chewed-up pen cap protruding from his lips in a way Steve found annoyingly endearing. “Like, as a concept?”

“No.” Shaking his head, Steve dropped the rope he was holding (because practicing shibari ties on Bucky’s ankle while he caught up on work was a fairly normal part of their relationship) and gestured to the window. “As a place to get married.”

“Why are you pointing at the window?”

“Because...Scotland’s in that...general direction?”

"Uh...huh," Bucky said, drawing it out as he re-capped his pen. Steve could only imagine the thoughts going through his head—too expensive, too far, too fancy, too, too, too! But hell, Bucky had been the one who let Steve plan everything, and Steve wanted Scotland. They both had Scotch-Irish roots, and maybe Steve found something romantic in windswept countrysides and kilts.

"We'd pay for the airfare," he explained before Bucky could start listing reasons why not. "And the accommodations. You were the one who said you wanted to keep it on the small side, and this would let us do that. We'd be giving a gift to people, really—a free vacation! And Cynthia found this incredible venue. It's a castle, and—"

Bucky silenced him with a kiss, mouths pressed together firmly before he pulled away. “No more than fifty people.”

“Done.”

“And…” he squinted. “ _No_ kilts.”

“But!” Steve sputtered. “I—!”

“Dealbreaker, Rogers,” he said. “Other than that, I think it’s a good plan, and I’m excited to get married in a castle.”

“Oh, are you?” Steve smirked, tugging on the rope binding Bucky’s ankle. What was the fun of perfecting a single column tie if not to use it to yank one’s fiance around on occasion?

“Uh huh.”

“How’s about you put that report away and show me just how excited you are?”

Nonplussed, Bucky picked up his pen. “No. Stop seducing me.”

“As if—”

“ _Steven_. I am _working_.”

“So take a break.”

“This is coercion and entrapment,” Bucky protested. “I _never_ interrupt you while you’re working, you hypocrite.”

Steve grinned.

Turned out, ankle ropes also gave pretty decent leverage when flipping over one’s fiance, presenting his backside for a few well-placed pops.

“Oh, pal,” he clucked, ignoring the fact that Bucky already had the giggles. “We’ve got rules about lying.”

“Do we?”

“We do. But I’m feelin’ generous, so I’m gonna let you keep dicking around on that report anyway.”

“You’re a real altruist.”

Bucky wasn’t wrong. Steve felt very altruistic indeed, allowing him to read his case report out loud with Steve thwapping his ass lightly every time he stumbled over a word. It was a long case; neither of them minded much.

* * *

They were getting married in March. After Bucky's birthday. That much was set, because they'd had to reserve the castle, and to book the castle they'd had to put down a deposit, and start on invitations, and save the dates, and the million other details that were the reason why Steve had hired two wedding planners. And an assistant for them. Because yes, he was a nitpicky strategist who loved being particular about the details. But he also had a day job.

Everything around the wedding was falling into place so smoothly, in fact, that the business of the prenup hit him like a projectile lobbed from a passing car.

Mostly because Steve had never planned for a prenup, and Bucky was the one who made it an issue at all.

The conversation happened two days before the engagement party Peggy was throwing them with Natasha’s help. The four of them had had dinner to work out a few last minute details, and later, when they’d arrived home, Bucky turned to Steve with a grin.

“You saw it, right?”

“Saw what?”

“Peggy and Natasha!”

“What about them?”

“Jesus, Steve. They’re fucking!”

Steve nearly spit out the water he’d just uncapped. “What?”

“Peggy and Tasha. They’re fucking.”

“You think everybody’s fucking.”

“Yeah, but they _actually_ are.”

They weren’t. Steve was ninety-nine percent certain. Surely Peggy would have told him if she’d started sleeping with Bucky’s best friend? Hell, how well did Natasha even _know_ Peggy? Steve didn’t think they’d been all that close before the whole engagement party planning thing.

They’d been awfully nice to one another at dinner, though.

Ninety-eight percent certain.

But: no. No way. Natasha was a lot younger, and she’d just come out of a long-term relationship. More than that, Steve was pretty goddamn sure she wasn’t into half the shit he and Bucky were when it came to kink, and that wouldn’t fly with Peggy, who was as high-protocol as they came. Never mixed well with vanilla, in his experience.

Although, Bucky _did_ confide a lot in Natasha. Who knew what she knew? Or what she was into.

Ninety...six percent certain.

Truthfully though, he just couldn’t see it. Couldn’t imagine the two of them together in any real way, no matter how hard he tried. (Well, he could imagine them _together_ , but the graphic images conjured by his baser impulses weren’t quite the same thing. [Although, Natasha would look spectacular in a chest harness.])

Ninety-five percent? Ninety-four?

God damn it.

“They’re not,” he settled on, taking another swig of his water. Nothing like a feeble statement of conviction to really drive home his point.

“If they’re not fucking,” Bucky countered. “They’re going to be.”

“What makes you such an expert?”

“Because Natasha had a thing for Peggy when you and I first started dating. They used to like...text each other.”

Steve, annoyed that he couldn’t remember that, waved it off. “No, they didn’t.”

“Yes, they did. Peggy was the one who made you get tickets to her performance that one time!”

“Oh.” Steve frowned. “Right.” Had that been flirting? He’d assumed Peggy had been asking out of pure philanthropy. “Well, what happened?”

“Uh, you, dumbass,” he smirked. “Nat blamed Peggy for the whole Brock thing.”

“Oh. But that was my fault.”

"Yes," Bucky said, like Steve was a bit slow on the uptake.

“Oh.” Frowning, he leaned back against the counter.

“So, whatever. It’s mended fences with them, I guess. All I’m saying is, they’re fucking. Or they’re going to be fucking.

“Is that your professional opinion as a licensed therapist, Mr. Barnes?”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Steve continued. “ _If_ it’s true—” Ninety-three percent? He could live with ninety-three percent. “—we should bet on it.”

Bucky’s face lit up. “Yes! If they’re fucking, you have to um…oh, I get to plan a surprise party for you. No questions asked. And you’ll never know when it’s coming.”

Steve chose not to roll his eyes, even as the thought of giving Bucky the power to embarrass and surprise him made his skin prickle. “Fine. Good thing I’m not gonna lose.”

“We’ll see.”

“When _I_ win...you have to…” he hesitated, considering his options. The problem with betting Bucky on anything was that he genuinely enjoyed most of the things Steve did to him, so finding something he hated was like pulling teeth. Inspiration struck, however, when Steve’s eyes fell on the barstools lining the counter. “Footstool. With a gag in. For the length of an entire movie of _my_ choosing.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “How long a movie?”

Steve grinned, knowing he'd hit on a winner. Over the years, he'd learned that while Bucky didn't mind holding still for long periods, he _hated_ doing it while Steve ignored him for something else. Unlike cockwarming or something where Steve might pat his hair or pay a bit of attention to him, this would be boring, and Steve would absolutely pick a movie that would drive him crazy not to be able to watch from his position.

“Up to and including _Return of the King_. Director’s cut.”

“You _sadist_.”

“I thought you weren’t going to lose?”

“I’m not!” Hesitating, Bucky chewed on his lip. “But like, what’s the time limit?”

“Uh, a week?”

“That’s not fair! They might be working up to it!”

“Bucky—”

“How about the wedding?” he offered. “If we don’t have proof they’re fucking by then, then the bet’s done. I will lose with dignity.”

“I doubt that,” Steve said, before holding out his hand. Bucky’s response was to bend down and bite his palm, which gave Steve the opportunity to lay the lightest of smacks to his cheek.

“Ow,” he protested, straightening up with a smirk. “I’m gonna make tea. You want some?”

“No, because I’m not a hundred and twelve years old.”

“It’s _good_!”

“Sure it is. Put the kettle on and come over here, huh?”

Two minutes later, Steve had Bucky on the kitchen counter, legs splayed wide so he could press between them, making out like teenagers while they waited for the water to boil. Not a bad way to end an evening, or initiate foreplay. Hopefully, the latter, though Steve would have been fine with either, and wasn't that the mark of a happy marriage-to-be? Regardless of the outcome, he just liked being with Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled after a minute, pushing him away.

Steve made a noise of protest, tugging him forward. “Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, punctuating each word with a kiss—one to his chin, one to his jaw, and one to his neck.

“Ste-eeve,” he protested, tugging him up by his forelock.

“What is it, Bucky?” he sighed, wishing instantly that he’d sounded less aggrieved.

“Nevermind,” Bucky muttered, shuttering himself the way he did when Steve annoyed him. The kettle chose that moment to begin screaming, so Steve let him go, watching him twist away as he hopped down to take it off the burner.

“It’s obviously something,” he countered, as Bucky began his strange Russian tea routine—something he’d picked up from Natasha, who had picked it up from her immigrant grandmother.

“It’s _nothing_.”

“Bucky…”

“God, I just—” he left his leaves steeping and turned around, arms folded across his chest. “We gotta go see a lawyer.”

Steve froze, his brain immediately seeking a reason to panic. “Uh...a lawyer?”

“Yeah. For the prenup. You can have yours draw it up, and I guess I’ll find one of my own to look it over. That’s probably fairer, or like—”

Having heard more than enough, Steve stepped closer, hooking his thumbs in Bucky’s belt loops and pulling him away from the counter. “We’re not doing that.”

“God, I _knew_ you were gonna do this,” Bucky scoffed. “Pull some romance novel crap on me about how like, oh, we’re gonna be together foreeeeeeeever, so we don’t need a prenup.”

“Do you _not_ think we’re in this for the long haul?”

“No, I do, but—”

“But what?”

“But it’s smart to have one! Just in case, I mean. Neither of us knows what’s going to happen, you know?”

Steve closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to play it off as nothing and nonsense on Bucky’s part, which he knew would be a mistake. For whatever reason, this had been weighing on Bucky’s mind, and he needed to at least hear him out. (Hey-o, therapy!)

“I understand that, Buck,” he said, opening his eyes so he could look at him properly. “But I don’t want a prenup.”

“Steve!”

“Hang on a second, huh? You told me your reasons, now I’m gonna tell you mine.” Drawing Bucky in closer, he pressed a kiss to his forehead and sighed. “God knows I’ve got more money than I need. And if you ever wise up and leave me—”

“Steve,” Bucky repeated, though that one came out more of a growl. The kid had range.

“Alright, alright. All I’m trying to say is that I don’t give a shit if you get half. Hell, you should, Buck. Clean me out, I don’t care. You’d do more good with that money than I ever could.”

“You’d care if you hated me,” Bucky protested. “Like if something happened and we got divorced. You might hate me, then, and we’d fight it out in court, and if we had kids that would like...fuck them up developmentally, and—”

“Wow. Thought I was the overthinker in this relationship?”

“Would you please stop joking around about this?”

“Bucky…” he trailed off, feeling they were at an impasse. Much like deciding on terms for the bet, however, inspiration struck in unexpected ways. This time it was a notebook left lying on the counter. He pulled away to retrieve it, along with a pen, and scribbled down the beginnings of...something.

> _This document says that Bucky gets half of everything. Steve will never hate Bucky, take him to court, or fuck up their children re: divorce. (He will probably fuck them up other ways, so fair warning on that one.)_

“Here,” he said, sliding the notebook across the island. “Prenup.”

Bucky picked up the pad, expression unreadable. “This isn’t legally binding,” he said once he’d skimmed.

“I genuinely don’t give a shit. Write down your terms.”

Pursing his lips in a way that made him look _exceedingly_ like his mother, Bucky sat down with the notebook and thought it over. He began to write, taking considerably longer than Steve, and when he slid the notebook back, there was a full paragraph below Steve’s scant sentences.

> _Bucky would like to point out that this is some Grey’s Anatomy post-it bullshit, and he’s sorry he knows that but Natasha made him watch the whole show. He agrees to half, but also wants it on record that Steve Rogers is a very good person. Steve is also not allowed to beat himself up over any and all future divorces OR child-rearing fuckups. Also, Bucky agrees never to hate Steve, either. Even if he wants to make it official that this is a terrible solution to a nuanced problem, so if Steve ever DID want to go to a lawyer, that would be fine with Bucky. Because if the marriage were to end, Bucky would not NEED Steve’s money to support himself or any hypothetical children. But that’s already been discussed ad nauseum so whatever. That’s all._

Underneath, he’d signed his full name with a flourish. Steve did the same, though when he looked up, he could see that Bucky’s ears had gone bright red, which was a surefire sign he was genuinely upset. Pushing the notebook away, Steve moved closer, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and kissing the top of his head.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he murmured against his hair. “Buck, I know. You’re so good at your job, they should let you run that place.”

“I don’t need it,” Bucky said, his voice muffled against Steve’s chest as he returned the hug. “I know you know, but…”

“I know.” Steve sighed, rubbing a slow circle between his shoulder blades. “Shit, Buck, I’m the one that needs you. I’m counting my blessings every day, and—”

“Ugh,” Bucky groaned, and Steve could hear a grin in it. “Don’t quote Hallmark cards.”

“What, you don’t like it when I get sentimental?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t want me buying you twelve dozen roses, and talking about my feelings all the time, and spouting a lot of cliche bullshit about treasuring every special moment, and—”

Bucky mashed his index finger against Steve’s lips to silence him. “Gross. Stop.”

“I thought all this therapy was so I’d be more open and honest? You’re confusing, Bucky, I don’t understand what you _want_.”

“Oh my God.”

“Your tea smells like a boiled fart, by the way. Doesn’t that mean it’s done?”

"Probably," Bucky said, pulling away from the hug and turning to retrieve his cup. "I'll drink it down here, so you don't have to smell it."

“I’ll meet you upstairs?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And uh...thanks. For listening.”

“Anytime, pal.”

* * *

Bucky took a while with the tea, giving Steve plenty of time to get into bed with his latest book—a history of the Boer War—that Bucky had called “interminable,” but Steve was genuinely enjoying. He got about ten pages in before Bucky came through the door and smiled at him, then started to get undressed.

Steve, who was a man of simple tastes, kept an eye on him, only to be caught in the act when Bucky saw his reflection in the mirror atop the dresser.

“What?” Bucky asked, eyebrow raised as he glanced back over his shoulder, pants and boxers halfway down his legs.

“Admiring the view.”

Cheeks going pink in spite of himself, Bucky shrugged, turning back around with a pleased smile and getting all the way undressed before crawling into bed. Clothing had long since been optional in their bedroom, and the option was rarely taken.

“Hi,” Bucky greeted, reaching over and attempting to close Steve’s book.

“Watch it,” Steve laughed, taking the opportunity to mark his place before moving the book to the nightstand.

"Sorry," Bucky said, though he wasn't, and then he was practically crawling into Steve's lap for a kiss, melting into him the way he always did. Body going pliant while Steve wrapped him up, kissing him carefully before rolling them over, so Bucky's back was against the mattress.

“So good for me,” Steve murmured, pulling away just enough that he could enjoy the inevitable grin that spread across Bucky’s face. Always a sucker for a kind word, that was Bucky all over. Steve began to kiss his way down after that, heading in one particular direction. Bucky, however, had other plans, and after a few seconds of Steve’s attention, he twisted away, pushing at Steve’s shoulder instead.

“What, baby?” he asked, not quite sure what Bucky was after.

“Just...roll over?”

Huh.

Steve didn’t argue, simply rolled onto his stomach as instructed, pillowing his head on his arms as Bucky peeled back the sheets. Nothing happened for a beat, and then Bucky’s hands were on his ass. He’d hardly recovered from the surprise of that when he felt the warmth of Bucky’s breath on his skin, and then, fuck, his tongue was circling Steve’s hole. _Christ_ , it had been a while since that had happened. Steve groaned, the fleeting thought of wishing he'd showered silenced by his hardening cock.

Bucky had a god damn gift for eating him out, he really did. A gift Steve didn’t take advantage of nearly as often as he should, all things considered. Especially when it felt so fucking good—Bucky with a hand between his legs, cupping his balls as he began to work his tongue past Steve’s rim with those quick, eager little licks that drove him absolutely crazy. Steve’s hips jerked forward against the mattress, body spasming while Bucky moved with him, humming low in his throat so Steve could feel the vibrations with every flick of Bucky’s tongue.

“Good _boy_ ,” Steve repeated, at a loss for any sentiment beyond that one, dick hard enough to hammer nails now, precome smearing against his stomach. Not one to resist a secondary source of pleasure, he wormed his hand between himself and the sheets to palm his prick, which was a relief, even if the positioning left him able to do no more than some undignified rutting. And really, who the fuck cared about dignity?

Especially not with those _sounds_...God, Bucky could give porn stars a run for their money with the noises he was making, all desperate and wet and filthy in a way that made Steve’s stomach churn and his cheeks go red. All that, for him, and—

“Wanna fuck you,” Bucky muttered, pulling Steve out of his head (a convenience, considering Bucky had just pulled out of...other places).

“Huh?” Steve managed.

“Please, Steve? You said...”

Steve couldn’t think. What did he…? Right. Fuck. Bucky wanted to fuck him. Bucky had never fucked anyone before. And Bucky wanted to...to…

_Oh!_

Jesus. Yes. Alright. But he was going to have to say it out loud, which was easier said than done, considering he felt more like an exposed nerve than a human.

“Yeah, pal,” he managed, turning his head back as much as he could to find Bucky sitting on his heels, a frown on his face. He made quite the picture, tousled-headed and slick-lipped with his prick perked up between his thigh. “Sure.”

“I mean, I don’t know how.”

Shit. Right. Didn’t know how. Or, well, he knew _how_ , he just hadn’t been involved from uh...that end. Steve was going to have to turn on his thinking brain again, which was difficult for him on the best of days. Plastering a smile on his face, he figured the best thing he could do was take control—Bucky’d do better that way, of that he was absolutely certain.

“Yeah, you do, pal,” he said, rolling onto his side and reaching for Bucky’s hand, pulling it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back. “Go get the lube.”

Relief evident in his expression at the instruction, Bucky leaned over to rustle in the bedside table. He emerged triumphantly, holding the bottle of lube aloft like it was the first place trophy in a rimjob competition. (Which, hey, there was an idea for a roleplay...but no. Focus.)

As Bucky settled back on his knees with the lube, Steve sent up a quick prayer to the gods of chance and anal intercourse, because he wasn’t about to shower now. It would be fine. It _had_ to be fine.

“There you go,” he said. “It’s easy, I promise. You’re gonna do just what I do for you, right? Start with a finger. Nice and slow.”

Bucky flipped open the cap and raised an eyebrow. "You're not always nice."

“Yeah, well,” Steve huffed out a laugh, rolling onto his stomach. “It’s been a while, so go easy on the old man.”

“Do my best,” Bucky muttered in a way that meant he was more focused on something else than responding to what Steve had said.

The first tentative touch of Bucky’s finger belied his nervousness, the single digit circling Steve’s entrance as if afraid to go further. Steve hammed it up a bit, sighing with pleasure and lifting his hips. Although it was a bit of playacting, the response wasn’t all for Bucky’s benefit; Steve liked getting fucked, and up until Bucky, he’d never exclusively topped. But Bucky had been so god damned insistent about his preferences, Steve hadn’t thought to press him on it. And while regret was generally more trouble than it was worth, Steve briefly wished he had, because he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being in this position.

It took a minute, but eventually Bucky slid his finger past Steve’s rim, though he hesitated immediately. “Is um...does that feel good?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Steve said (even though it actually didn’t feel like anything more than the tip of an index finger in his ass). “If it stops feeling good, I’ll let you know.”

“I...thanks.”

Bucky went back to the task at hand. Steve could almost picture his scholarly little face: intense concentration, eyes narrowed, probably chewing on that goddamn bottom lip of his. He couldn’t complain—not when all that concentration resulted in the tip of his finger grazing Steve’s prostate, which had been sorely neglected of late. Steve, predictably, reacted by moaning into the pillow and telling Bucky how very, very good and very, very smart he was for finding it.

“Shut upppp,” Bucky said, though Steve could hear the grin in his voice.

“Can’t help it,” Steve replied. “You wanna try another one while you're back there?”

In lieu of an answer, Bucky slid his index finger out and returned a minute later with a freshly-lubed pair of digits. And yeah, Steve could feel _that_. Not a painful stretch, exactly, but not a pleasant one, either, and maybe he was a bit of a scaredy-cat when it came to pain. He’d make a lousy masochist.

“Slower, Buck,” he cautioned, when Bucky pushed too far, too fast. “Just do it like I do to you.”

“I can’t _see_ what you to do me.”

Steve rolled his eyes and shifted his weight, the press of his erection no longer troubling him, as it had flagged considerably in the interim. “Twist 'em a little,” he said. “Like uh...” Brain leaving him, he went with his stupidest thought. "A plug."

Bucky snorted. “Nice analogy.”

“You wanna start bratting at me when you’ve got two fingers up my ass?”

“I mean, maybe?”

“I got a whole drawer full of ways I can make this unpleasant for you and—”

“Sorry, daddy.”

Little suck up. Steve grinned. “Then do what you’re told.”

Doing just that, Bucky began to stretch him open. There was something surreal about the entire experience—giving Bucky an instruction, then feeling it happen _to_ him, seconds later. Anyone else he’d been with had either known what they were doing, or they’d been fumbling through something new together, and although he’d had Bucky do any number of things at his behest, having him _inside_ was a novelty. There were plenty of interesting options there, come to think of it—fingers, cocks, various and sundry other toys. Christ, he’d have to file that one away for later. How was it he was almost forty and _still_ discovering new things that turned him on?

Eventually, Bucky had him fairly well prepped with two fingers, and he cleared his throat. “Um. So. Is this good? Are you ready?”

“Do I feel ready?” Steve asked, because he probably could have taken it after one, but he'd forgotten how much he liked getting fingered.

“Um...I think...you need another finger. Because you haven’t done this in a long time. And like, when it’s been a long time for me, you always go slow.”

Steve bit his lip, because way to set up the joke, kid. It had been ages since he'd had to do more than lube up and head home with Bucky. "When has it _ever_ been a while with you, pal?”

“Fuck off!” Bucky laughed. “Are you calling me easy, old man?”

“Spade’s a spade.”

"All I'm saying," Bucky replied, his free hand coming up to swat Steve on the hip. "Is that when you've been traveling, and you come home, you're extra careful. That's all."

“Well shit, Buck, if that’s your logic, better use your fist.”

Bucky froze, and Steve could practically hear the color draining from his face. “Um?”

“Joking, just joking,” he said. “But, you know, maybe some other time?”

“I can’t think about that right now!” Bucky squeaked, pulling both fingers from Steve with a swiftness and liberally coating them with lube before returning with a third.

Jesus, now _that_ stung. Again, not entirely necessary, and three fingers together was undoubtedly thicker than Bucky's cock with even the most _generous_ of measurements, but shit, it felt good, and Steve wasn't complaining. All the same, Steve admonished him to take it slowly, which he did, working him open with the grace of a greenhorn, but that was fine. Felt good regardless, and by the time Bucky had all three fingers seated within him, pressing against his prostate, Steve had broken into a sweat. All the good and the bad had intermingled into nothing more than a throbbing _want,_ and yes, he was ready. He was absolutely fucking ready.

“S’good, baby,” he croaked. “However you want me.”

“All fours,” Bucky said, which was considerate. The position would be less stressful for Steve than being bent double, even if he did sort of wish he could see Bucky’s face during.

“You sure?”

“All fours,” Bucky repeated, sliding his fingers out with a squelching sound that ought to have been embarrassing, but Steve was beyond all caring.

Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, Steve felt heavy and slow with want, every inch of him aching for Bucky to fill him up and remind him of what he’d been missing. Now that this was back in the repertoire? He wasn’t giving it up for love or money.

The first uncertain press of Bucky’s prick against his entrance sent a shiver running down Steve’s spine. Knowing Bucky hadn’t done this before? That Steve was claiming some part of him nobody else had been able to touch? Well, fuck. It was primal and stupid and in that moment, so was he.

“It’s alright, Buck,” he said. “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

That was a lie, and they both knew it. The process was never entirely without a pinch and a pang, and as Bucky began to push in, Steve winced, caught between the good and the bad, his body fighting against the intrusion even as he tried to relax. Dropping his head low, he blew out a breath, giving himself over to the cacophony of conflict as Bucky inched his way forward, torturously slow in his efforts. It felt like a lifetime before he'd buried himself to the hilt and Steve could feel the warmth of his body, flush against the backs of his thighs. Christ, he'd forgotten how it _felt_ to be so full; how much he needed it.

“Wow,” Bucky whispered, his fingers flexing on Steve’s hips, where they’d maintained a steady grip.

“Feels pretty good, huh?” he said, looking over his shoulder. Mistake—the expression on Bucky’s face brought all his latent macho tendencies to the fore once again. Grunt, grunt, rut, rut. Me Tarzan, you James.

“Fucking _tight_ ,” Bucky marveled.

Steve gave him a moment to sit with the sensation, before rolling his hips and drawing a grunt out of Bucky, whose hold on Steve’s body tightened. “Gotta move, baby,” he instructed.

“M’gonna,” Bucky mumbled, before doing just that, sliding out nearly to the hilt, then pushing back in. Hurt less the second time around than the first and oh, hey, there was his dick, perking up and showing an interest in the proceedings once again.

Grinning, Steve balanced himself on one arm, reaching between his legs to stroke himself, knowing he’d be flying the standard high in a minute or two. Bucky, meanwhile, was still setting a hesitant, gentle pace that, in all honesty, left something to be desired.

“Buck?” he said after a minute.

“Huh?”

“That’s a real nice start, but how about you show me what you can do and fuck me, huh?”

God help him, Bucky tried. Not quite a natural (but then, when had anyone ever been a literal fucking prodigy?), but sex was sex. Every human being Steve had bedded seemed to have an innate understanding of the rhythm, and while it took a minute for Bucky to set his pace, he got there in the end. Steve glanced back once or twice, always finding his Bucky, falling apart atop him just as much as he ever did underneath; the same whimpers and whines escaping as he fucked into Steve time and again. But then, Bucky was always his. And he was always Bucky’s. So it worked out nicely.

They moved together for as long as it took Bucky’s thrusts to become erratic, hips stuttering forward as his breath hitched in his throat. Steve knew his tells; knew when he was close. It hadn’t quite been a marathon, but he wasn’t expecting miracles.

“Please...please?” Bucky panted.

“Please what?”

"Please, can I come, please?"

Steve smiled at the request. It wasn't anything he'd ever told Bucky to do, outside of when they'd play games around edging. But lately, he'd been asking permission nearly every time, for any activity. Steve was happy to indulge the kink.

“Mmm. No. Not yet.”

Bucky made a noise of utter frustration, stopping his movements entirely as he worked to stave off whatever release had been building. Regardless of the scant time that bought him, Steve got the sense he wasn’t going to last long.

“Please?” he begged, voice tremulous. “Please, please, daddy?”

Every ounce of willpower Steve possessed went into denying him, as he put on his most disappointed voice. “You can’t last _one_ more minute for me, Buck?”

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, fingernails digging into Steve’s hips. “I’ll...I can try.”

“That’s my boy.”

Buoyed by the praise, Bucky took a second or two to collect himself before beginning to move again, no doubt using every trick he had to keep himself together until at least a minute had passed, maybe two.

“Please. Gotta.”

It wasn’t a request, and Steve wasn’t an idiot. “You can come.”

Bucky thrust twice more before coming with a familiar yelp, along with the usual trembling, whining series of protests, because he was an oversensitive mess after coming. Every damn time. No doubt overwhelmed, he pulled out of Steve so quickly that Steve was pretty sure half the spunk was going to spill out and onto the sheets, so he clenched down, doing his best to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

“Jesus, Buck,” he managed, pushing himself up to find Bucky sitting back on his ankles, looking a bit shell-shocked. Steve couldn’t resist, so he wrapped him up tight, covering his face in kisses. “You’re so sexy. Do you know how good that was?”

Bucky mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out, voice orgasm-slurred but decidedly downbeat.

“What was that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I said you didn’t _come_ ,” Bucky repeated, his cheeks going red as he pulled back, looking anywhere but at Steve’s face.

“Hey,” Steve frowned. “Buck, c’mon. Look at me.” It wasn’t a request, and Bucky reluctantly turned his gaze to Steve. “That was fantastic. I loved it. And I love you. And I’m not saying the first one because the second one happens to be true. You got me?”

A smile threatened Bucky’s expression as he parsed that sentence. “Uh...yeah.”

“You wanna finish me off, you go ahead and finish me off. But don’t for one second think I’m disappointed with any of that, because I’m not.”

“I…” Bucky shook his head, too worked up to answer. Instead, he shuffled closer, wrapping one arm around Steve’s neck before, well, reaching between them to finish Steve off.

When Steve came, just a few minutes later, he bit down hard on Bucky’s neck, drawing a yelp from him. Business as usual, both of their stomachs spattered with his release. Steve, because he could, drew a lazy line through the mess with his index finger, holding it up for Bucky to lick clean. Bucky made a show of it, of course, because he was nothing if not excellent at his work.

The brief afterglow led to a much-needed shower; when that was through, and they returned to the bedroom, a glance at the clock had Steve yawning and deciding against a run in the morning. Worth it, though.

“So um,” Bucky said as they settled back into bed, cuddling up with his head on Steve’s chest. “Thanks for letting me try that. But we don’t have to do it again.”

“We don’t, huh?”

“Nope.”

“What if I wanted to?”

Bucky frowned. “I mean. Maybe? But...it wasn’t like you really _liked_ it, right?”

“We keep having this same talk, you know. Do you see me making a habit of doing things I don’t like?”

“No, but…”

“Would you stop worrying about it, then, brat? I’m into it. _Really_ into it.”

Bucky scowled. “Define really.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Like, you know how I was when I got really into the rope bondage?”

“Oh shit,” Bucky laughed. “You _are_ really into it.”

“I really am. So stop getting in your weird brain about it and go to sleep. It’s late.”

Bucky nodded, reaching over to turn out the lamp. Always a good start, though it rarely meant the end of the conversation. True to form, a minute later, came, “Steve?”

Predictable. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You definitely still want to fuck _me_ sometimes, though, right?”

This fucking kid. Steve resisted the urge to laugh. “Yes.”

“Good. Because I like that more than this.”

“Sure, pal,” he agreed, reaching over to run a hand up Bucky’s flank before curling an arm possessively around his middle. For all that he’d enjoyed himself, he could tell Bucky’s head wasn’t on entirely straight, and when that was the case, there were certain tools in his toolkit that helped. “How about we do a rules day tomorrow?”

Bucky squirmed at the suggestion, considering the idea. ‘Rules' days were a lot of work, but they also tended to be a lot of fun. The general idea, which Bucky had presented to Steve about a year prior, was of a twenty-four hour period that was a heavier, stricter version of their usual dynamic. Steve had agreed, and he enjoyed executing them, but the days were more for Bucky than for him—Bucky tended to want them when he needed to get out of his head or have some reassurance about where he stood with Steve.

“Yeah,” Bucky said after a moment’s silence. “Please.”

“Good boy,” he replied, kissing the back of his head. “No clothes, all day. I’ll decide the rest in the morning.”

Bucky yawned, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded. “Kay,” he agreed. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Buck. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never had so many people request one particular thing as I did Bucky topping. So: happy holidays, here's hoping it fulfilled all your wishes.
> 
> Now, to the fun stuff!
> 
> My sweet friend and Discord co-mod Kelsey has been so amazingly creative throughout the writing of this story, and as such she's created save the dates for Bucky and Steve:
> 
> The conversation when Bucky saw the final version of these is as follows:
> 
> _"You know how I said you could make all the decisions?"_
> 
> _"Yeah."_
> 
> _"I changed my mind. If you put Bucky on the invitations, I won't marry you."_
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy and Natasha throw a party.

The engagement party, all told, had been a smashing success, from the teary-eyed toasts to the trivia game Natasha had put together, which was neither stiflingly dull nor too ribald for the more Catholic of Bucky's family members in attendance. Success didn't come easy, though—oh no. Peggy and Natasha had worked hard for that breezy afternoon of canapes and conversation, and Peggy had every intention of celebrating their accomplishment once the guests were gone, even if she was celebrating alone.

There had also been the matter of the toaster.

If Peggy had one regret, it was that no-one had had a camera out when Bucky’s Great Aunt Janet arrived from New Jersey with a large, wrapped box in her arms. Being as there had been a specific ‘no gifts’ mandate on the invitations, Peggy couldn’t imagine what lay within.

“It can toast bagels, too,” Aunt Janet had explained, as Steve and Bucky lifted the brand spanking new Cuisinart four-slot toaster from the wrapping. “I found it at the Costco.”

“It’s wonderful,” Steve replied with the grace of a man who had been smoothing over awkward situations his entire career.

“Thanks, Aunt Janet,” Bucky agreed, crossing the room to kiss her cheek. “We really appreciate it.”

Janet, who no doubt meant the gift as a kindness, believing that her great-nephew and his intended needed the help, looked pleased with the response. Natasha, meanwhile, was standing stiff as a poker next to Peggy, shaking with glee and suppressed giggles.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Peggy whispered, giving her a nudge.

“I’m _trying!_ ” she protested, covering her mouth with one of the custom-printed napkins.

Knowing that all would be lost if she looked at Natasha, Peggy pressed her lips together firmly before going to see if Bucky’s mother needed another drink. Her thoughts, however, stayed with Natasha and her almost-giggles. Funny thing about that, how stoic and severe she seemed, the mask hiding the mirth that lay just beneath the surface. Peggy had caught glimpses of it, early in their acquaintance. In their rekindled friendship brought about through the planning of the party, she’d discovered more, and what she’d discovered, she liked very much.

Which was a danger, in so many ways. Because Natasha was young, and Natasha was special, and Natasha was _trouble_. Peggy didn’t need trouble; for as much fun as they’d had working together, it would do her good to _not_ be seeing Natasha twice a week, every week. Too easy to foment affection in such close proximity.

The toaster was carefully tucked into a corner, and the party continued until the last champagne had been sipped and people began putting on coats and making their excuses. Steve and Bucky, naturally, were the last to leave, toaster box tucked under Steve's left arm.

“You ought to stop and buy some bagels on your way home,” Peggy teased, helping him balance it.

“We will,” Bucky said. “I think we should put it in the bedroom and keep a loaf of bread in there, too. That’s like...breakfast.”

“The depths of your laziness never fail to amaze me, Buck,” Steve smirked, rolling his eyes.

“Like you wouldn’t live in a pigsty if you didn’t have a housek—ow, _ow_!” Bucky yelped, dancing away to escape Steve’s fingers, which had found a decent bit of thigh to pinch.

“Say thank you to Peggy,” Steve prompted. Peggy very nearly rolled her eyes at the instruction—if they could save the bloody power exchange until they were in their own home, she’d be delighted.

“Thank you, Peggy,” Bucky recited with a smirk.

“Christ,” she said, kissing his cheek while he was close enough. “You’re terribly subtle, aren’t you?”

“We try,” Steve said. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“And also thank you for real, for the party,” Bucky broke in. “Steve’s being rude and not saying so. But we appreciate it.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, fixing Bucky with a hard look. “I was getting to that. Thank Natasha, too, please.”

“Yeah, definitely _thank_ Natasha,” Bucky agreed, both eyebrows waggling.

Whatever he was getting at, Peggy wasn’t going to dignify it with a response. “I will do,” she said, waving them off and shutting the door. As she locked it, though, she heard the unmistakable sound of an open palm smacking an arse over a few layers of fabric, accompanied by a laugh from Bucky.

Ah, young love.

Turning back to the entryway, she stifled a yawn, tilting her head from side to side. It had been a long day—the party had begun at noon, but she’d been up since eight, getting ready—and it wasn’t over yet. The caterers had arrived at ten, Natasha at ten-thirty, and Peggy’d had to shower and dress as well. Even now, with everyone gone, the flat was a sty, and while people had been hired to clean, they wouldn’t be coming until the next morning. All that, and the caterers would be there for another half hour or so, packing up.

Still, even if she couldn't relax yet, she could step out of the heels she'd been tottering about in all day. Leaving them by the front door, she and her stockinged feet headed back into the living room, where she was surprised to find Natasha crouching on the floor holding a dustpan and a broom, sweeping some errant crumbs. Where on earth she'd located the dustpan was anyone's guess, though Peggy wasn't about to spend too much time concerning herself with the details. Not with such a view to admire—the dip of Natasha's spine drawing the eye to the curve of her arse, the position putting a bit of strain on the fabric of the tight, green velvet dress she'd worn for the occasion. Appropriately festive, considering the season, and who could blame Peggy for delighting in the pretty packaging?

Clearing her throat, Peggy waited until she was sure she had Natasha's attention. "There's no need," she said. It wasn't an admonishment, but Natasha didn't need to be crawling about on the ground. (At least, not without explicit orders to do so. Which was a line of thought that just invited all sorts of trouble.)

“I don’t mind,” Natasha said, twisting her body and reminding Peggy of just how flexible she was, curls framing her face in a way that begged brushing back.

“I do,” Peggy said, offering her hand. “I’ve got people coming in the morning to clean this place from top to bottom.”

Natasha scowled, and God, the _look_ on her. The willfulness at being told what to do, the _fight_ in her. “It’s fine—”

“Darling, you _hosted,_ ” Peggy clucked. “You’ve done enough.”

Another war played itself out behind Natasha’s eyes. Her pride won out, barely, as she made one final sweep of the crumbs into the dustpan before standing, the material of her dress ruched an inch or two higher on her thighs, revealing pale, pretty skin that certainly didn’t need the assistance of stockings.

Peggy watched as Natasha crossed to one of the two bins placed in the room by the caterers, shaking out the contents of the pan. God, Peggy had to stop thinking about her. Had to stop fantasizing about what she would have done to correct that willful show of disobedience if Natasha were _hers_. Make her empty the pan back onto the floor, perhaps. Kneel on the crumbs and the grit, holding herself in perfect posture until her thighs trembled and Peggy felt she’d learned a lesson.

Stupid, indulgent thoughts. Natasha wasn’t hers. Wouldn’t ever be. Because Natasha, as far as Peggy knew, might have been aware of Bucky and Steve’s proclivities, but wasn’t particularly interested in them herself. Oh, she’d probably been tied to a headboard or two in her time, but that sort of thing was child’s play when measured against the strange, dark desires that had kept Peggy awake at night for as long as she could remember.

Natasha, having completed her chore, put the pan and broom down before tugging her dress back into place. Peggy’s eyes flicked down, once, and she knew she’d been caught by the way Natasha hesitated, fingers skimming her thighs. Peggy met her eyes and swallowed, just as the sound of a plate being dropped in the next room made them both wince.

“Let’s leave them to it,” Peggy offered, glad for the reprieve. “Come on, we’ll have a drink. We’ve earned it.”

Natasha fixed her with a funny look, though she nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

Peggy led them to the room that had been billed as a third bedroom when she'd bought the place, but she'd had converted into a study. The dark wood wainscoting was original, though it had been re-stained, and the walls above were painted a creamy color that reminded her of the study in her parents' house in England. There was a small reading nook, a desk, a sizeable tufted sofa, and a bar cart. One of several in her home, in fact, because one never knew when a drink was in order.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the sofa, which stretched along one wall, a window on either side. “Do you like scotch?”

“I...guess?”

An auspicious start. Peggy went to pour them each a glass of Macallan. It wasn’t her best bottle, but it was a decent single-malt. Speyside, obviously, a preference inherited from her father. Which was no doubt the height of snobbery, but she’d never claimed _not_ to be a bit priggish.

“You can take your shoes off,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to find Natasha sitting rather stiffly.

"I wasn't sure," she replied, reaching down to slip out of her patent leather pumps, which were somewhat scuffed on the bottom.

“Sure of what?”

“Some people are weird about bare feet on their furniture.”

“Some people,” she echoed, pouring about a finger into each glass and lamenting the lack of ice, but not about to go and fetch it now. “Not me.”

“Good to know.”

“Mmm.”

“Nice room. I like the bookshelves.”

“Thank you,” Peggy replied, handing her a glass before settling on the sofa beside her. Attempting to lead by example, she pulled her stockinged feet up onto the cushion, smoothing out the skirt of the wine-colored dress she’d picked for the occasion. Christ, with Natasha’s green, they looked like a Christmas tree.

“Welcome.”

“I’m not fussed about your feet,” she reiterated, which had sounded better in her head.

Natasha smiled at that, taking a small sip of her whiskey. To Peggy’s relief, she didn’t make a face, and even seemed to be enjoying it. “Wow.”

“Good?”

“Mmmhmm. It’s…” she thought about it, taking another sip. “I can taste sherry. Well, not _exactly_ , but—”

“Bang on,” Peggy laughed, pleased with her taste. “They mature it in sherry oak casks. Well done.”

“Oh.” Natasha shrugged. “So, is that one of your things?”

“One of _what_ things? Whisky, or sherry oak casks?”

“Neither.” Shaking her head, Natasha gestured at the bar cart. “I just mean, is it a hobby? Knowing things. About alcohol.”

“I wasn’t aware that constituted a hobby.”

“Not a _hobby_ , but—” Natasha hesitated. “Some people enjoy obsessing about it.”

“I don’t, especially. I know what I like, and that’s enough. Why do you ask?”

“Making conversation, I guess.”

“Ah.”

“And I wanted to know what you do. For fun. When you’re not planning parties.”

Interesting. In all of their time together, they'd discussed plenty of things, but they'd yet to manage many conversations of substance. Neither of them was especially forthcoming about personal matters, though Peggy found she didn't mind being asked.

“This and that,” she replied, trailing her index finger around the rim of the glass. “I read a lot—mystery novels, mostly. I write terrible poetry when I’m feeling maudlin, and I enjoy being outdoors, so I’ll camp or kayak when I’m able. Nothing _too_ thrilling, I’m afraid.”

“It sounds nice,” Natasha said, an unreadable expression on her face.

“I don’t mind it.”

“But…” Natasha trailed off, sly as a cat, glancing at Peggy with a raised eyebrow. “Is that _all_ you do for fun?”

Peggy raised a brow. “Pardon?”

“It’s…” Rarely one to get flustered, Natasha’s cheeks had gone the slightest bit pink. “Well. I was thinking.”

“Were you?”

“I know you were engaged to Steve.”

Peggy, caught off guard by the bluntness, frowned. “It’s common knowledge.”

“Yes. Right.” Natasha took another swallow of her drink—a big enough mouthful that Peggy was sure it had to have burned her throat on the way down. “And I know that Steve and Bucky are…” she raised her hand, flapping it about exaggeratedly.

Curiouser and curiouser. Peggy feigned cluelessness, cocking her head to the side. “You’ll have to elaborate, darling. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

Natasha huffed out an annoyed little sigh, which was more charming than it had any right to be. “Bucky and I talk a lot, is all I’m saying. And I know that he and Steve. Their relationship. It’s unconventional.”

“What’s conventional?”

“ _Jesus_ , you’re impossible,” she snapped, which made Peggy laugh out loud. “No wonder you and Steve get along.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, would you care to follow through on your implication?”

“I know they do the whole...Fifty Shades thing.”

Bollocks and bullshit, the whole lot of it, though at least it gave Peggy a starting point. “Mmm.”

“So, I figured. You know. You and Steve probably used to...do that stuff, too.”

God, but she took her time getting there. Peggy suppressed a snort before sipping her drink. “What’s your point?”

“I’ve done some research,” she replied. “And I guess I just wanted to know if you were like...Bucky. When you were with Steve.”

“No,” she shrugged. “I was like Steve, when I was with Steve.”

“Oh.” Natasha closed her mouth.

Deciding to put her out of her misery, Peggy shrugged. “Christ, darling, it’s not a binary. It’s a continuum. Yes, I have certain proclivities. So does Steve. So does Bucky. You know this already, or you wouldn’t be asking.”

“But Bucky didn’t before.”

“Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t,” Peggy shrugged. “But generally preferences like that don’t spring forth fully formed in one’s mind.” In other words: Bucky Barnes was not the Athena of kinky awakenings, and Steve had only tapped into what was already there.

“Well, right,” Natasha agreed with a frown. “It was more like...when he met Steve, he figured out who he was. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

“And the thing is,” she continued, as though Peggy hadn’t spoken. “It’s not like I _haven’t_ thought about things. And I thought, shit, I’ll try it. So Dottie and I did, which...was fine. I tied her up, and she let me. But it was just sex, except she couldn’t touch me. I didn’t _get_ it—the appeal. It’s not the same as—” she stopped, cutting herself off abruptly, as if realizing she’d let too much go.

Maybe she had. Peggy could already see the questions forming as she stood at the top of a very slippery slope.

Fuck. She didn’t need this. Didn’t need her head spinning with all the possibilities of what might happen if this baby duckling imprinted on her. Didn’t need this particular fool’s paradise dangled before her like a carrot, just out of reach. Yet there they were, all the same. Natasha spitting out her desires in fits and starts, while Peggy lent a sympathetic ear. Fuck, she was only human, and how often did she have a gorgeous young thing sitting on her sofa, confessing her latent kinky proclivities?

Ought to be responsible, though. Ought to be the adult she ostensibly was.

“Natasha,” she said. “It’s alright if you didn’t like it. It’s not for everyone, and—”

“I used to think about you,” Natasha said, cutting her off. “That I should have tried, with you. When I had the chance. Because you’ve done it before, and so it wouldn’t be weird.” She took a deep breath. “When Bucky told me what he and Steve were doing, and I got...it’s not jealousy, but. Fuck. I wanted to try, and then you fucked up everything before I could. So I tried with Dottie instead, and that didn’t work, so I’m blaming you for that, too.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Peggy said dryly.

“I wasn’t going to ask you, by the way. I was gonna...go to a club, do something like that. But you’re always _flirting_ , and I’m here, and you’re here, and maybe it’s just trying something once, because we’re not going to be hanging out as much now that the party’s over, so we could?”

“Oh…” Peggy trailed off. “God, Natasha. There’s more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“If—and it’s a rather big if—we’d need to talk. Negotiate. Figure out what you want, what you don’t—”

“But we’re already talking about it,” she countered.

“That’s…” Peggy frowned. “Look. How much do you know about what Steve and Bucky do?”

“Uh.” Put on the spot, Natasha faltered. “I know Steve’s in charge. And he makes rules for Bucky.”

Peggy nearly laughed. God, she just bet Bucky had rules—rules Steve let him break, flout, and brat his way out of daily. A sucker for a pout and a pair of pretty eyes, that was Steve Rogers all through. The very few times they'd brought a third party into their play, Peggy had grown frustrated with his leniency. Steve, in turn, had been annoyed with her strict adherence to protocol. Neither of them was wrong, of course, it was merely a matter of compatibility.

“Steve,” Peggy said, saving Natasha from her stumbling. “And Bucky, are in what’s commonly referred to as a twenty-four seven power exchange.” God, she hated terminology, she really did. It never quite got at the truth of the matter, in her experience, because life and relationships could rarely be summed up so neatly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they’re always playing their parts—Steve’s always in charge, Bucky’s always giving him control. Though, obviously, it ebbs and flows.”

“Oh,” Natasha said, wrinkling her nose.

“Other people,” Peggy continued, marveling at how quickly her afternoon had spiraled into this strangeness. “Prefer shorter scenes that are less about exchanging power, and more about pushing their body to a limit, or trying out a new toy or technique. A scene can be any number of things, in fact.”

“So that’s...they’re doing the twenty-four seven thing. And you...do scenes?”

Peggy shrugged, lifting her drink and taking a stiff swallow. “Yes and no. My preference is for high-protocol scenes—ones with a lot of rules, formal titles, focusing on obedience and rewards.” Plus, Peggy was much more of a sadist than Steve, though she wasn’t about to tell Natasha that now. Not with her teetering on the brink of _something_.

Natasha’s face returned to its usual inscrutable mask, tucking herself away. She was good at that, Peggy had noticed—letting her feelings show only when she thought they would be of some use to her.

“So before,” Natasha said after a moment’s consideration. “When we first met, and we got coffee. Were you thinking about doing things like that with me?”

“Yes,” Peggy said evenly, unsurprised by the question. Natasha clearly had an agenda.

“Do you still want to?”

“Yes,” Peggy replied. “However, you do seem a bit unsure at the prospect.”

Natasha frowned, holding Peggy’s gaze steady as she straightened her spine and gave the slightest of shrugs. “I guess I won’t know unless I try.”

This was a bad idea. Peggy knew it was a bad idea. This girl—this inexperienced girl, who hardly knew the words for what she was getting herself into—had practically issued an engraved indication. Christ, Peggy was no saint; she was scarcely above the rank of groveling sinner, what with the thoughts she'd been harboring. The things she wanted to do. God, maybe she'd live to regret it, but at that moment, watching Natasha tuck an errant curl behind the curve of her ear? Peggy didn't give a damn.

“Have I mentioned,” Peggy said, her sly, traitorous tongue speaking on her behalf as she leaned forward, “how lovely you look in that dress?”

Caught off guard by the compliment, which had been the intent, Natasha glanced down at herself. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” Shifting her posture, Peggy sat straighter, dragging her eyes down Natasha’s curves, not bothering to hide her intent. “Stand up—let me see it properly.”

Stupid, stupid plan. They hadn’t negotiated. Hadn’t discussed. She wasn’t even sure Natasha would do as she was told. She might laugh in Peggy’s face. Walk out and leave her wanting. Might—

Natasha stood.

Peggy swallowed. Counted to three. Kept her gaze impassive, reigning in her baser impulses. Because if Natasha wanted to try, then Peggy was going to put her through her paces. “Put your drink down, then stand up straight.”

Natasha dipped at the waist, setting her glass on an end table before resuming her position. “Like this?”

“Not quite,” Peggy replied. “Put your arms behind your back.”

Natasha obeyed, clasping her hands together loosely, the movement jutting her chest out just enough to send a pulse of heat straight to Peggy’s nethers. God, she’d missed this. It had been too long since she’d played with anyone—nearly three months now— and she’d spent too much time indulging in fantasies about this particular creature during that gap.

“Better,” she continued. “Grip your elbows, not your wrists. Chin up, shoulders back.”

No doubt used to posture corrections in her dancing, Natasha did what she was told, body locking into place as she settled. “This?” she asked, eyes flicking to Peggy, seeking her approval.

“It’ll do for now,” Peggy said. “Tell me about your dress.”

“Uh…” Natasha laughed, caught off guard. “What?”

“Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies. I asked you a question.”

“But—”

“Tell me. About. Your dress.”

“It’s...green?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

A flash of frustration crossed Natasha’s face. Good. “It’s green.”

“It’s green what?”

“It’s green...and velvet?”

“Asking, or telling?”

“It’s green velvet,” she gritted, and Peggy could see the tension in her shoulders. The annoyance at not knowing the right answer.

“It’s green velvet _what_?" Peggy prompted. Christ, she'd forgotten how fun this could be with a novice. Most of her partners were well-versed in her preferred protocol and could turn it on as needed. Natasha, conversely, was flying blind, and watching her do her best to stay one step ahead while failing utterly was a delight.

“It’s green velvet uh...fabric.”

At least she hadn’t phrased it as a question.

Tutting her disappointment, Peggy rose to her feet, Natasha’s eyes following her every movement. “Tell me, Natasha, did I, or did I not, indicate that I prefer formal titles during scenes?”

Natasha frowned. “Yes, but—”

“But?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that so long as you’re doing as I say, you’ll address me with a modicum of respect.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “Like, Mistress?”

Stifling a smile, Peggy shook her head. “That’s presuming rather a lot, darling. Ma’am will do nicely. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

Peggy arched an eyebrow.

“Uh. Yeah, ma’am?”

“Asking or telling?”

“Sorry. Yes, ma’am.”

“Such a quick study—I might make something of you yet. Now, where were we? I believe you were telling me about your dress.”

A light dawned in Natasha's eyes—an understanding. Peggy loved that look on people because it marked the moment when her desires and her partner's understanding of those desires became one and the same. A synchronous dance, executed perfectly.

“It’s a green, velvet dress. Ma’am.”

“It certainly is,” Peggy agreed before taking a step closer. Close enough to touch, in fact, though she stayed her hand. “Where did you find it?”

Natasha frowned, which caught Peggy off-guard. Why on earth should she be made nervous by such an innocuous question? “It, uh—”

“It’s alright,” Peggy said gently. “Doesn’t matter what the answer is, so long as it’s an honest one.”

“Goodwill,” she muttered. “Ma’am.”

Ah. And here Peggy was in her perfectly appointed flat, surrounded by all her expensive things. No wonder she’d hesitated. Though having Natasha feel ashamed of her thriftiness wouldn’t do at all, so Peggy smiled, lifting her hand to finger the material of the skirt. “Secondhand, really?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Aren’t you a clever cat?” she said. “It looks as though it were made for you.”

Natasha preened at the compliment, just as Peggy had hoped she would. “I altered it,” she explained. “A little. My mother taught me how.”

“Ma’am,” Peggy prompted.

“Right. Ma’am.”

“You’ve a good eye,” she said, continuing on as she circled behind Natasha to inspect the work. 

“Thank you,” she replied, catching herself before Peggy could and quickly amending a “ma’am” to the statement.

"What a good girl," Peggy clucked, finishing her circle before stepping back to look her up and down once more. "You do clean up nicely when you want to. I remember the night I met you—another green dress, wasn't it?"

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mmm,” Peggy smiled. “Though I was more focused on your cleavage than the color.”

Natasha grinned that fox-like grin Peggy knew so well, shoulders straightening as she thrust her chest out further. “Oh?”

Pride goeth, indeed. Peggy shrugged, staying stoic and pursing her lips. “You always look smart, really. Which was why I was so bloody bothered when you showed up to our first lunch together, after all that time, looking as though you’d slept in a sty.”

Natasha's face fell, and she opened her mouth as if to protest.

“No explanation necessary,” Peggy continued. “It was just such a _shame_ for me. There I was, thinking I was getting a treat, because I so enjoy pretty girls in pretty clothes, and instead I got you, in those ratty old things. It was as though you’d _deliberately_ dressed to disappoint me.” 

“I—” Natasha’s mouth twisted up into a moue.

“Did you?” Peggy queried, a small smile playing on her lips. She’d assumed so, at the time—Natasha, stroppy as a teenager, slumping into her seat with her tangled hair and sweat-soaked shirt. She understood why, and God knew she didn’t begrudge her the anger, but all the same, she was going to have fun making her answer for it now.

“Sort of, ma’am.”

“Elaborate, please.”

Natasha scowled. “I didn’t want you to think I cared about what you thought.” 

An honest answer, even though she’d forgotten the honorific. Peggy would let her have that one. “But you did care, didn’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” she amended.

“If you’d been mine,” Peggy continued, “and you’d turned up like that, I’d have had to punish you. However, being as you weren’t—”

“How?” Natasha blurted, eyes gone wide and—dare Peggy dream—anticipatory.

“How would I have punished you?” she clarified

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Painfully,” she replied primly, pleased to see Natasha give a hard swallow. “Not that it matters, considering I won’t be punishing you for it.”

“But…” Natasha frowned. “What’s, I mean...how painful, ma’am?”

Endlessly curious, this one. Peggy hesitated, torn between telling her the truth, which might frighten her, or softening the blow, which was somewhat dishonest. In the end, she aimed for the middle. “I prefer my punishments to fit the crime. So, for a pet who showed up to lunch in grotty gym clothes? You’d get no dinner, and I’d have you exercise to exhaustion without a stitch on, most likely.”

Wide eyes got wider, and Natasha smiled. Interesting response—Peggy filed it away for later. Not that there would _be_ a later. Because there wouldn’t. “That...doesn’t sound all that painful, ma’am,” she said after a moment, choosing her words carefully.

“You don’t think push-ups until your arms can’t hold you wouldn’t be painful?” she pressed. “Squats until your legs gave out?”

“Shit,” Natasha muttered.

“It’s correcting behavior. That’s all. And you’ve forgotten the ma’am twice now.”

“Shit, ma’am,” she amended with a smirk.

“Smartarse,” Peggy laughed. “Don’t think I won’t correct for that, too. And while we’re on the subject of corrections, you interrupted me, before. That’s another thing I don’t allow.”

“Oh. What’s...the punishment for that, ma’am?”

"Depends. I have been known to wash out the mouths of serial interrupters with soap, but generally, I just clip a clothespin to their tongue."

“Fuck,” Natasha winced. “Ma’am.”

Peggy shrugged, waving it off as she sank down onto the couch. “You are not, however, mine, and you didn’t know that rule before, so that’s not playing fair. And we _are_ only playing, aren’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. You remember that—if you’d like any of this to stop, you say stop. If you have questions, you may ask them. Respectfully. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wonderful. Take off your dress.”

The abrupt switch had its intended effect. Natasha frowned, cocking her head to the side. “What?”

“Have you gone deaf?” Peggy sniffed. “You heard what I said.”

For the briefest of moments, Peggy was sure that they’d reached the end. Natasha wouldn’t do it; she’d walk out the door with her head held high, shattering Peggy’s fantasies as she went.

Natasha, however, did not leave. Instead, she twisted her arm underneath itself, seeking the top of the invisible zipper lining the side of her dress. Using her other hand to pull the material taut, she slid the zip down, then began to wriggle and fuss her way out of the material, which was delightfully snug, even with the zipper undone. Beneath it, she wore an ill-fitting beige bra that had seen better days, along with a shaping garment that even the tiniest of women tended to wear under tight dresses to keep things smooth. Taming all those lumps and bumps that might remind onlookers that they were human. The shapers were not the sort of undergarment one wore when sex was on the table, and the fact that Natasha had been so willing to strip off and show them to Peggy was intimate in a way she wasn't entirely sure she knew what to do with.

“Well done,” she praised, taking a moment to look her over. “Seems a shame to keep the rest of it on, being as you’ve done the hard work of getting half-naked.”

Natasha gave a rather ladylike snort before rising to the challenge. Sheer hubris, this one, armed with a refusal to back down from any task. Peggy smiled, sitting back to enjoy the view.

Beginning with the shapewear, Natasha rolled the entire constricting thing down her torso and over her hips in one long, beige tube, revealing the small swell of her stomach, a mole just to the right of her bellybutton, and a tiny Cyrillic tattoo above her left hipbone. The panties she’d chosen to wear underneath the shaper were as practical as her bra, with frayed elastic and a dinginess that spoke to repeated washings.

“Well done,” Peggy murmured, the words leaving her on a whim, though she didn’t regret it when she saw the smile the praise brought to Natasha’s face.

The bra went next, Natasha undoing the clasp and sliding the material down her arms. God, Peggy wasn’t much of a poet, but she could have written a sonnet or two regarding Natasha’s perfect tits. Pale and plentiful, framed by the remnants of a tan line. Soft curves, light veins visible just below the skin, with dusky pink areolas and nipples that had begun to pucker and harden after being exposed to the air of the room. Peggy took in a deep breath and shifted her position, exceedingly aware of the dampness between her legs. What an intoxicating thing Natasha was.

Then, for the first time since she’d begun to undress, Natasha hesitated, fingers hooked in the waistband of her knickers. Peggy hummed her approval, watching with interest as Natasha’s stomach rose and fell with one big, deep breath before she pushed the cotton pants down, widening her stance enough that they fell to the floor and she could step out of them, kicking them to the side. Peggy took her time in admiring the revealed skin—bare, like most women Natasha’s age. Not Peggy’s preference, but then, Natasha wasn’t her girl, and her grooming habits weren’t Peggy’s concern. All the same, she found herself exercising an impressive amount of willpower in _not_ dropping to her knees and burying her face in Natasha’s cunt.

"Beautiful," Peggy assured her when she glanced up to find Natasha seeking some sort of validation. "Put your hands behind your back again, just as you were before."

Natasha nodded before shifting position, tits thrusting forward as she settled, body shaking slightly. Not cold, but nervous. Good. The sadist in Peggy wanted to make that worse; turn the shiver into a quake.

“Spread your legs,” she instructed. “Let me take a look at you.”

The blush that had been visible on Natasha’s cheeks for some time now darkened at the instruction. To her credit, she didn’t argue, saying nothing and widening her stance until Peggy held up a hand to stop her.

“Good, good girl,” Peggy murmured, shifting so she was perched on the edge of the couch. “I’m going to touch you now.”

Natasha nodded, breath leaving her in one sharp exhale. “Please. Ma’am.”

Pleased at the show of manners, Peggy lifted her left hand from her lap and brought it to bear on Natasha’s outer thigh, holding her steady as her right hand moved between her legs, index finger running along the inside of her lips. That elicited a shudder, and Peggy was pleased to discover she was wet. Arousal wasn’t the be-all and end-all of indications when it came to pleasure, but it certainly wasn’t a _bad_ sign. Or, at least, it meant Natasha’s nerves were the enjoyable sort.

“Gosh,” Peggy teased, tapping her damp finger against Natasha’s slit. “Wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Natasha managed, and when Peggy looked up to correct her, she found that her blush had deepened further.

“Not embarrassed, are you, pet?” she teased, her finger beginning another slow, teasing journey between the two halves of Natasha’s outer labia.

“Nnn…” Natasha shook her head, biting down on her bottom lip.

Peggy hummed, pressing the tip of her finger a bit more firmly against Natasha’s pussy, seeking out the tell-tale nub of her clit. “Not _lying_ to me about that, are you, pet?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Natasha hissed, instinctively clenching her thighs together.

“Absolutely not,” Peggy reprimanded, the correction coming quickly as she swatted her left hand against Natasha’s hip.

“Ow!”

"Did I tell you that you could close your legs?"

“No, but—”

Another smack, this one harder, the sound of it echoing through the room.

Natasha, ever the apt pupil, widened her stance.

“Lovely,” Peggy said, rubbing a circle on the slightly reddened skin of her flank. “Now. Where were we?”

Likely hoping to avoid another spank, Natasha found her voice. “You asked if I was embarrassed, ma’am.”

“And you were going to say no.”

“I...was, yes.”

“And that would have been a lie.”

Natasha’s expression closed off, and she shut her eyes briefly, schooling her features even as Peggy continued to stroke her, lightly, just to remind her she was there. “It is... _somewhat_ embarrassing. Ma’am.”

“I see,” Peggy replied, allowing the tip of her middle finger to barely breach Natasha’s entrance, the walls of which spasmed around her. Christ, bodies were wonderful things—giving away secrets, no matter how desperately one was trying to hide them. “But why should you be embarrassed?”

“Uh,” Natasha faltered, glancing down. “Being as I’m naked and you’re not…”

“Yes, you are,” Peggy agreed, leaning forward enough that she could press a kiss to Natasha’s stomach, just above her pubic bone. “Because I want you to be, you see. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Natasha agreed, and she really was _good_. A darling, in fact, who was taking everything Peggy doled out admirably, even though it was a bit much, for a first time. Standing to attention, being inspected, naked and out of her element? That would have been a lot for any initial scene, much less one with someone whose prior experience was limited to bedpost bondage.

Natasha, in Peggy's estimation, had earned a respite and a reward. So, she released her hold and sat back before patting her lap in blatant invitation. It wasn't something she would have offered to just anyone, but Natasha was new and young, and she'd been awfully good, Plus, it was unlikely this would ever happen again, so Peggy supposed she could break her own rules. Just this once.

Taking the opportunity for what it was, Natasha sat down on Peggy's waiting lap. She was heavier than she looked, which wasn't an insult, merely an observation—tiny, yes, but muscled and strong. Once she'd settled, Peggy took a moment to arrange her, feet on the cushion, back against the arm, laid out like a four-course meal. Breaking yet another of her self-imposed rules, Peggy couldn't resist leaning in to kiss her.

“Better?” she asked, barely breaking the kiss as she slipped her hand between Natasha’s thighs once more, coaxing them open. “Relax—you’re supposed to be enjoying this.”

“I am!” Natasha laughed, chasing after her for another kiss, which Peggy allowed, though she did give her bottom lip a nip for forgetting the honorific.

As their mouths met, Peggy pressed on, her middle finger breaching Natasha again, finding it easy enough to slip inside to the second knuckle. Her thumb, meanwhile, sought out Natasha's clit, pressing down firmly when she found it and enjoying the way it made Natasha jump and sigh. Peggy experimented with pressure, discovering that Natasha responded best to circling rather than anything resembling a flick. After a moment, she began moving her finger in tandem, setting a lackadaisical pace. She knew she'd cracked the code when Natasha let out a breathy little moan, her legs falling further apart. Good: she was vocal. That would make things simpler.

Breaking the kiss, Peggy bent her neck at an angle that wasn’t precisely _comfortable_ but was worth the trouble when she took Natasha's nipple between her teeth, biting down, only to be rewarded with a strangled yelp. Peggy grinned, her finger sliding home as she increased the pressure on Natasha's clit for just a moment before easing off, counting to ten in her head. It was only when she felt Natasha relax that she began to move again, seeking out those places within her that felt pleasure more keenly than others. Women, in Peggy's experience, were finely tuned instruments, and mastery took precision and practice. Men, conversely, were more like kazoos—keep blowing long enough, and you'd produce something, even if it was just an unattractive noise. 

Natasha proved to be wonderfully responsive, mewling and moaning her satisfaction as Peggy took her apart. Eventually, she slid a second finger in alongside the first, alternating the intensity of her strokes as she brought Natasha close to the brink before slowing down and beginning all over again. Peggy had no doubt that this was a woman who could handle something rougher, of course, but if this was to be their only time, she wanted it to be sweet.

The knock on the door came as a surprise to both of them. Peggy, who had been in the midst of laving further attention on Natasha's tits, sat back in shock, while Natasha's legs clamped together like a vice, eyes going wide.

“Shit, the caterers,” Peggy mumbled, before clearing her throat. “Yes?”

“We’re done with the dishes,” came the voice of Susan, the head caterer. Christ, Peggy had _known_ they were still in the house, but her lust-addled brain had pushed that knowledge to the furthest reaches of her good sense. "We're going to head out if you want to lock up behind us."

Thanking God that she’d paid in advance, Peggy gave Natasha a reassuring little squidge before speaking again. “Wonderful! Thanks, Sue. I’m ah...I’ve got my hands full with a project right now, but I’ll ring you in the morning. Everything was perfect, as always.”

“You’re welcome,” Susan said, before hesitating. “You alright? You sound a little out of breath—”

“Fine!” Peggy called. “Thanks again! Have a good evening!”

“Well...yeah, you too,” Susan said. Peggy hoped she’d been reassuring enough, and that Susan would leave well enough alone and walk away. She should have locked the door. What sort of pillock fucked someone in their study with other people in the house and didn’t lock the door?

Scarcely daring to breathe until Susan’s footsteps had retreated, Peggy turned and dropped her head to Natasha’s shoulder. “Shit,” she managed. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“I forgot they were there,” Natasha groaned. “Jesus.”

"As did I," Peggy agreed. "Although come to think of it, that's _your_ fault.”

“ _My_ fault?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “Wearing that dress, asking me all those questions about what I get up to on the weekend. Taking your _clothes_ off for heaven’s sake—have you _seen_ your tits?”

Natasha smirked, glancing down at said tits, the leftmost of which had been rather kiss-bitten. “That’s victim-blaming. Ma’am.”

Peggy grinned, choosing that moment to scrape her thumbnail against Natasha’s swollen clit. “Is it, little girl?”

Yowling, Natasha squirmed. “Shit!”

“Shit _what_?”

“Shit, ma’am?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Peggy said with a smirk before leaning down to recapture Natasha’s nipple.

Turned out, it wasn’t a question that needed answering.

Whether it was the thrill of nearly being caught, or simply that she’d been brought close to the edge so many times, it didn’t take long before Natasha’s hands closed around Peggy’s forearm, holding her in place and gripping tight as she rocked her hips. Under any other circumstances, Peggy wouldn’t have tolerated Natasha taking control like that, but it _was_ her first time. Of a sort. “I’m so fucking close,” she whined.

“Are you?” Peggy smirked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Fuuuuuck…” she trailed off, arching her back, seeking another angle. “Oh, right there!”

Rolling her eyes, Peggy slid her thumb off the area entirely. “You’re going to have to ask for what you want, pet. I’m not a psychic.”

“What?” Natasha yelped, her frown settling into something that might charitably be called a pout.

“And you’ll address me respectfully when you do it.”

“Fuck,” Natasha repeated, kicking her foot against the couch cushion.

Peggy pursed her lips; she didn’t care for brats, even pretty redheaded ones. In one swift movement, she gathered Natasha’s curls into her hand and yanked as she pressed both fingers against the spot she’d found, within Natasha’s walls, that made her squirm. “Mind your fucking manners, pet.”

“Sorry, _sorry_!" Natasha yelped, hips bucking, following Peggy's hand to lessen the pressure on her skull. "Please, can I fucking come, ma'am?"

“Any of us _can_ come," Peggy said, knowing she was a pedantic arse, wrenching Natasha's head to the other side, keeping her guessing.

“You’re fucking _kidding_ me…" Natasha groaned. "Please, _may_ I fucking come, ma’am?”

“Oh, if you like,” Peggy agreed, releasing Natasha’s hair and leaning in to kiss her as her thumb found its way back to her swollen clit.

Natasha was as vocal in her bliss as she’d been about everything else, body seizing and cunt spasming around Peggy’s fingers. Ecstasy was often strange and rarely beautiful, but that made it better—the chance to see someone at their purest, rawest, most intimate moment. Peggy pulled back to watch Natasha as she came, eyes never leaving her face, drinking in every twitch and moan.

"Beautiful," she murmured when the shocks had subsided, and Natasha was left panting, a hazy little smile on her face. It was hard to resist her like that, but then, it was hard to resist her at all. Peggy smiled and pulled her hand away, resting it on Natasha's thigh before kissing her cheek. Her nose. Her forehead.

Natasha luxuriated in the attention, her head falling back against the arm of the couch, eyes fluttering shut. She was gorgeous, all stretched out and spent. Vulnerable and seen. Peggy wanted to keep her like that for hours. Days. Years.

Dangerous, dangerous Natasha. Dangerous, dangerous thoughts.

Natasha had wanted to play, was all, and they'd played. But someone like that deserved more than what Peggy could give her. Sweetness was not her specialty, nor domesticity her domain. Not since Steve. And Natasha deserved all of that; most people did.

Still, Peggy wouldn’t look the gift horse of what they’d had in the mouth. It had been nice, even if it was only the once.

After taking a moment to recover, Natasha lifted her head, seeking out a kiss. “Your turn?” she asked upon pulling away a few seconds later.

Peggy, who didn’t often care for quid pro quo, shook her head. “I’m quite alright. I promise.”

“But you didn’t—?”

“No,” she agreed. “But that’s not what this was about.” Anyhow, it was nothing that a vibrator and a mental loop of Natasha splayed out on her lap couldn’t take care of later.

“Oh.”

“So, what did you think?”

Natasha laughed, pushing her hair back from her sweat-dampened forehead. “I think...I might be a lot more like Bucky than I thought?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you to all of the enablers who really, really, really wanted PeggyNat in this universe. That one's for you. Chapter five features Bucky surprising Steve, as well as the beginnings of the actual wedding festivities. 
> 
> Massive thanks also to [daphneblithe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphneblithe) for the lovely art she's created of Peggy and Nat in this universe. Gorgeous, gorgeous ladies, and you are so wonderfully talented, my friend. They look like they've had a _very_ nice afternoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes an aesthetic choice. Steve has thoughts on the matter.

Bucky desperately needed a new computer.

Not at home, though. The home computer was great. Or, computers, actually. Spectacular, even. There were three of them—his laptop, Steve’s laptop, and the big, fancy desktop setup in Steve’s office. Plus the tablets. And the phones. And the various other proprietary gadgets Steve was always bringing home from the office.

His office. Not Bucky’s office. Bucky’s office only had a piece of shit Dell, otherwise known as the beast, otherwise known as the computer that needed replacing. The beast had been at least six years old the first day Bucky had booted her up, and now, nine months into his new job, she was creaking along, taking her sweet time when saving documents, and needing upwards of four minutes to shut down on a good day.

This was not a good day. He had places to be.

Still, he had a lot of respect for the beast. She’d seen regimes rise and fall, employees come and go, and yet there she stood. Stalwart. Terrible. Ugly. With a hard drive that sounded like it had been smoking a pack a day for twenty years and a keyboard that was sticky from a thousand pastry crumbs and spilled coffees.

For better or for worse, he and the beast were bound together in a sort of matrimony that wasn't half the fun of what he was planning with Steve. But she held the software and the security features needed to do his job. They didn't fuck around when it came to patient information, which meant his speedy little StarkTech stayed in his bag, and he fought the beast for every cursor stroke.

(And while he supposed he could have asked Steve if StarkTech might make a generous donation to his organization, he knew he never would. This was _his_ job. Not Steve’s. He could suffer a shitty computer.)

There were upsides to the beast, too. Like, for example, waiting four or five minutes for her to save or shut down gave him time to review cases, or water his plants. There were three of them sitting on his windowsill, overlooking the dingy, grey alley behind the building. He’d inherited them from the previous occupant of the office, and while he wouldn’t call himself a green thumb, he’d managed to keep them alive, watering them when they looked a bit wilted, pulling off the dead leaves when they turned. The thought of leaving them for three whole weeks had him a little anxious, truthfully, but he’d asked his favorite and most reliable coworker to please, please, please check in and water them while he was gone.

Again: for three weeks. Starting as soon as the beast finished saving his work and he could shut her down. Three weeks was, naturally, _well_ outside the standard vacation allotment for most jobs, especially a new one. And while he could rant all day about the fact that that American work-life balance was insane, it was what he had to work with. But his boss liked him, so when he’d gone to her to ask if he could manage something involving a week of PTO alongside two unpaid weeks for the wedding and the honeymoon, she’d agreed.

(And yes, he was a lucky motherfucker who no longer needed the money. He recognized this. Daily.)

The beast gave a whine before beeping the familiar beep of a successfully completed save. Grinning, Bucky started the slightly-less-arduous process of shutting her down for the night. (He’d tried, once, to put her to sleep instead of turning her off, and had lived to regret it in the morning when it had taken two IT guys and a swift kick to the tower to get her going again.)

Strange to think he'd be a married man the next time he saw her. The wedding was in four days, and while Bucky knew it was coming in _theory_ , in practice, it all still felt kind of surreal. Yes, he'd helped. He'd gone to all his tux fittings, he'd looked at invitations, he'd tasted cakes, and he'd approved the various details set before him by one of Steve's bevy of wedding planners. Hell, their flight left the next afternoon; an overnight to Glasgow from Newark, accompanied by at least some of the wedding party.

None of that made it _real,_ though.

Probably it wouldn’t feel real until it was happening. Until he was standing at the end of an aisle in front of his friends and family, looking at Steve and pledging his troth. He had to assume it was some sort of troth pledging thing since Steve had been indulging in every ridiculous romance novel fantasy he could find. Bucky had known he was a grand gesture guy, but the past few months had taken it to a whole different level. Like, who knew Steve had so many thoughts about _flowers_? And yeah, Bucky loved him more than the sun and the moon and the stars and shit, but he’d have been just as happy to bring in a justice of the peace and get married at City Hall.

Although, he did like the idea of a party, surrounded by all the people he loved. Liked the thought of all his sisters being in one place for something that wasn't Christmas or Thanksgiving. Liked knowing he'd get to hang out with his parents and his cousins and his aunts and his uncles. Plus his friends—Natasha, natch. Clint and his new girlfriend. Wanda and her brother (who, well, wasn't exactly a _friend_ , but they'd offered a plus-one). There were a couple more friends from college and even two from high school. It was cool to be able to treat them to something special, even if Steve was the one footing the bill for the trip. Shit, he'd actually paid for some passport applications.

(The only outright no he’d gotten had been from Peter, whom he hadn’t expected to want to come in the first place. Peter and Wade had, however, taken Bucky out for an evening that began with flaming shots and ended with Bucky lying on a piano crooning an off-key Barbra Streisand torch song. Wasn’t his fault that Peter had wanted to argue with him over the relative merit of Bab’s new album. Bucky had a goddamn point to prove.)

Steve’s guest list was considerably smaller, and while he kept insisting that Bucky shouldn’t feel bad about that, Bucky harbored some guilt all the same. Peggy, of course, wouldn’t have missed it. Then there was Sam, who was taking on the same best friend role as Natasha, even though they weren’t actually _doing_ much. (Briefly, Peggy had been bandied about as an option, but she and Steve had decided between themselves that it would be kind of odd to have the former fiancee of one of the grooms playing that part.) Sam meant Sharon and the twins would be joining them, which Bucky was stoked about because he loved the twins. They were gullible, just like most kids, and believed anything he told them about Sam. Which was useful ammunition to have in his back pocket every time Sam called him “Junior” like it was so goddamn funny.

The rest of Steve’s list was rounded out with Peggy’s parents, some friends from college, and people from work. Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, James Rhodes, Carol Danvers, and a few other folks Bucky didn’t know well. And, like, if it was kind of weird that most of Steve’s friends were the people with whom he ran a multinational corporation? Well, he didn’t get out much. As far as family went, Steve simply didn’t have any. Both of his parents had been only children, and his grandparents had passed years ago. There had been a few second and third cousins out there, but he’d claimed not to know them well enough to issue an invitation.

All told, it was less than sixty people, most of them Bucky’s. More than he’d initially wanted, but fewer than Steve had tried to press him into. Compromise—boded well for the marriage.

“Fucking _beast_ ,” he muttered, as she threw up an error message indicating some process was stopping her from shutting down. Hitting the enter key, he checked his watch before going to gather his things. It was still cold enough outside that he needed a coat, and he buttoned it up and tucked a scarf into the collar, then stuck his lunchbox inside his messenger bag.

“Come on, come _on_ ," he said to the computer when he'd finished getting ready, and she _still_ wasn’t done, patience wearing thin. It was 5:17, and he had somewhere to be at 5:30.

Finally, mercifully, the screen went black. Bucky pumped a fist into the air before turning out the lights and locking the door behind him. With any luck, he’d make it to his appointment on time.

Or, well...he was two minutes late, but the person he’d been meeting didn’t care.

An hour after arriving, the deed in question was done, and he paid his bill before heading out to catch a cab. Usually, he wouldn't have, but he was already running late, and he knew Steve would be antsy, considering the long day of travel they had ahead of them and the fact that Bucky was notoriously last-minute about packing.

Once the cab was on its way uptown, he texted Steve to let him know he’d be home in twenty-ish, depending on traffic. Steve—a nonsense person who’d taken the past three days off work to put out wedding-related fires—texted back seconds later with a grumpy emoji and a clock.

Asshole. Bucky grinned and sent him back the middle finger emoji before going to text Natasha instead, ignoring the notifications from Steve that kept popping up.

> _i did it_

> _!!!!! send me a pic_

> _k_

Snapping a quick selfie, Bucky sent it off to her, then watched the three dots as they pulsed.

> _v nice. should i pack anything sexy?_

> _idk r u getting laid at my wedding?_

> _lol i mean are we going out_

Since when the fuck did Natasha say LOL? Squinting at his phone, Bucky wrote back.

> _idk maybe u can. steve’s gonna be up my ass so u might have more fun than me_

> _I bet he is. I’m gonna bring a cocktail dress._

Bucky fired off a _k_ along with another middle finger for her rude comment before pocketing his phone, content to lean his head against the window and turn off his brain for as long as it took the cab to pull arrive at their building.

Of course, as soon as he was standing on the sidewalk, his adrenaline kicked back in—heart thumping and throat going dry. Because, like, he hadn’t done anything _wrong_ , but he had done something _new_ , and Steve wasn’t so good with new at the best of times, and this was their _wedding_ , and fuck, what if he hated it? No, he wouldn’t hate it. Anyway, what did it matter if he hated it? It was Bucky’s decision. He’d wanted to do it. He’d done it. It was fine. It was fine!

It was fucking fine.

Swallowing his nerves, he nodded to Tim as he entered the lobby, giving him a wave.

“Lookin’ sharp, Bucky,” Tim said. Tim always called him Bucky, even though everyone else in the building was a Mister or a Ma’am. They’d tried it once, found it didn’t suit them.

“Thanks,” he replied, forcing a smile onto his face as he headed for the elevator, inserting his key and pressing the button, all the while ignoring the quivery, Jell-O feeling that had settled into his stomach.

The doors opened, and he was almost disappointed to find that Steve wasn’t waiting for him. But considering he could smell something garlicky and delicious coming from the kitchen, he didn’t mind too much.

“Hey!” he called out, going to the hall closet to stick his shoes and coat inside. “I’m home!”

“Kitchen!” came Steve’s shouted reply. Which, yeah, Bucky could have figured that out, what with the garlic and all.

Heading in that direction, Bucky’s adrenaline spiked higher and higher, so by the time he reached the doorway to the kitchen, he was a bundle of raw nerves. God, his throat was tight, and he was sure he was blushing something fierce

“Smells good,” he said, feigning nonchalance as he leaned against the doorframe.

Steve’s back was to him, hand stirring something on the stove, and he turned at the sound of Bucky’s voice. Bucky knew the moment he saw it—his smile faltered, then faded, only to be replaced with confusion and, finally, shock. “Holy fuck,” he managed.

"Surprise?" Bucky said, any facility with language he might once have possessed deserting him as he brushed his fingers through his newly shorn locks. Because shit, the long hair had been outdated and unfashionable and he'd wanted to do this for a while. What better time than right before a bunch of pictures that were going to commemorate his youthful...youthfulness for always and eternity?

All the same, it was different and surprising, and he hadn’t told Steve he was going to the salon. So while it looked good, and he _knew_ it looked good—nice and wavy—he wasn’t a hundred percent sure of what reaction he was going to provoke.

“Buck,” Steve said, his voice a little hoarse. Shit. He was mad. Hurt, maybe? Bucky should have told him; he told Steve _everything_ , why wouldn’t he tell him this?

Only, no, that wasn’t hurt—disbelief, maybe, but not of the unhappy variety. The look on Steve’s face was one Bucky knew well; one Steve only ever had when he saw something he really, really wanted.

Tossing the wooden spoon into the pot, Steve crossed the room in two great strides. One arm went around Bucky’s waist, as the other hand came up to push through his hair, turning his head this way and that so he could admire it.

“You like it?” Bucky asked, playing coy.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Steve muttered before kissing him. He tasted like garlic and onion and whatever fancy wine he’d been drinking. Merlot, maybe? Bucky felt like he was getting a pretty good sample, considering Steve’s kiss was neither shallow nor chaste, the hand in Bucky’s hair tipping his head back as he crowded him against the doorframe. “Hot,” he finished, twisting his fingers and yanking Bucky onto his toes by his hair which oh, oh, _oh_ that hurt and Bucky liked it very much.

His knees shook, hands holding onto the wall for purchase, letting out a whine as Steve found what he was looking for—namely, his neck, which he bit down on hard enough to leave a fucking mark. So, yeah. Haircuts did it for Steve. Who knew?

The timer on the oven chose that moment to go off, of course, and Bucky swore as Steve pulled away, tugging on his hair one more time for good measure before releasing him.

“I guess you like it,” Bucky said, chewing on his kiss-bitten lips while Steve turned to the oven.

“What do you think?”

“I couldn’t really tell. Maybe you oughta show me some more—”

“Smartass,” Steve replied, opening the oven door and reaching for a mit. “You really gonna throw sarcasm at me right now?”

Bucky weighed his options. The adrenaline rush of earlier hadn’t worn off, and there were worse ways to expend some energy. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Steve smirked, pulling out some cut of meat Bucky couldn’t identify but had probably once been a cow. Smelled good, anyway. Without saying a word, Steve went to set it on the island. Shit, he was disconcerting when he was quiet. That usually meant he was getting _creative_ , which never boded well for Bucky.

“I think,” Steve said, staring intently at the roast. “Ten minutes oughtta do it.”

“Do what?”

“Resting the meat.”

Bucky opened his mouth. Steve held up a hand.

 _“If_ you make a joke right now,” he said. “I’m gonna make this worse.”

Bucky closed his mouth.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, Steve took his time futzing around and setting a timer, pretending all the while that Bucky wasn’t there. Like an asshole.

“Oh geez, sorry, Buck,” he said eventually. “Forgot I was supposed to be punishing you. How about you bend over the island, huh? Keep an eye on that roast for me.”

The island, being the size of a small shipping vessel, could support both Bucky’s torso and their dinner. Bucky rolled his eyes, draping himself over the countertop as Steve set the ticking timer on the screen in front of his face before going about the business of getting the rest of their food together. Which was fucking boring, is what it was. Bucky _hated_ boring punishments.

Two minutes passed (and he was counting every second—Steve must have set the screen to never turn off) before Steve paid him a lick of attention. “I really do like that haircut on you,” he said as he walked behind Bucky, stopping to rub a hand across the seat of his work pants.

“Thanks.”

“You left it long enough for me to pull. That was considerate of you. Give me your foot.”

Oh, Jesus. Bucky rolled his eyes, knowing Steve couldn’t see him as he lifted his left foot up since he was better able to balance on his right. Steve, wasting no time, pinned that foot against his thigh and wrapped a piece of rope around it. Where in God’s name he’d had _rope_ in the kitchen, Bucky didn’t know, but it was Steve, so he wasn’t about to ask a lot of questions.

Working quickly to create a makeshift futomomo, immobilizing Bucky’s calf to his thigh, Steve stepped back with a satisfied nod. “Good,” he said, before yanking off Bucky’s sock and running his fingers ever so lightly across his arch. Evil mother _fucker_ —Bucky squirmed in place, letting out a squeal that was, like, zero percent badass.

“Shit!” he barked.

“Watch that mouth, or I’ll tape it shut.”

Knowing that was no idle threat, Bucky clamped his lips together, focusing instead on the timer, which had about six minutes left. “Sorry,” he said, going for sweet and contrite.

“Gonna be sorrier,” said the walking dad joke that was his stupid almost-husband, before going back to stir the sauce on the stove.

Another two minutes passed. Steve was fussing, as usual, getting plates from cabinets and pouring a second glass of wine for Bucky, as well as topping up his own. The fact that there was wine for him boded well for Bucky being allowed to eat a civilized meal at the end of this frankly ridiculous torment.

“It’s a shame,” Steve said, as the countdown hit 3:59.

Bucky knew it was a trap and stepped into it anyway. “What’s a shame?”

“Oh, you know. The fact that you’re gonna be so goddamn sore, and you’ve gotta sit on a plane for about eight hours tomorrow.”

Bucky barely had time to register what that meant before Steve’s fingers caught in his belt loop, hoisting him onto his toes and beginning to spank him mercilessly with a wooden spoon. Which...was that the same one he’d been using for the sauce? Didn’t matter. Whichever spoon he’d chosen, it stung like a motherfucker, even over two layers of clothes.

“Ow! _Ass_ hole!” he yelped, doing his best to jerk away. Useless, considering Steve’s strength and the fact that he only had a single foot to his advantage.

Steve didn’t dignify the name-calling with a response; at least, not a verbal one. The intensity of his spanks picked up, though, as did the speed. There were three minutes and twenty-two seconds left on the timer, and it seemed Bucky’s backside was going to suffer all the way to zero.

There were tears in his eyes by minute two, and while it wasn’t the hardest spanking Steve had given him by a long shot, it was still embarrassing and frustrating and _good_ and _evil_ and a million other things that had him sniffling and begging for it to stop. By the time the phone began to buzz with the completed timer, the tears had spilled onto his cheeks, and he was no doubt as red-faced as he was red-assed.

Steve stayed his hand the moment the timer made a sound, placing the spoon on the island and rubbing Bucky’s behind. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, not even caring that he had to start the word three times before he got it out.

“You’re such a good boy, huh?”

“Yes,” Bucky agreed, bringing a hand up to wipe his face. “I am. And I’m sorry I was being a smartass.”

“Are you really?”

“Um.” Giving an experimental wriggle, he found he liked the way it felt, raw skin rubbing against the soft cotton of his boxers. “Not really, no. But it felt like I should say it anyway.”

“Cute,” Steve smirked. “Go sit down, Hopalong Cassidy, I’ll get your plate.”

“You’re not gonna untie me?”

“Nah. I only untie brats who’re _actually_ sorry.”

Fair enough. Bucky grinned, pushing himself to a standing position before hopping towards the table and letting out a hiss of pain when he lowered himself into the chair.

Steve kept him in the tie all through dinner because Steve was nothing if not pedantic about proving points. Afterward, he glanced at their dirty dishes and shrugged. “You can clean up.”

"Steve," he said solemnly, already knowing it was a futile argument, and he was going to be hopping like a fucking rabbit all around their stupidly gigantic kitchen. "What if I fall and the plate breaks, and it cuts my face to shreds, and I look really ugly in all our wedding photos?"

Placidly, Steve got to his feet and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

Bucky sighed and got to work.

Twenty minutes later, the dishwasher was running, and the kitchen was spotless, save for the roasting pan which had been left in the sink to soak. Steve, magnanimously, had informed him he could take care of that one _in the morning_. Bucky let him know what he thought about that pretty vocally, which was how he ended up on his knees in the living room with Steve’s dick halfway down his throat. He wasn’t sure what the lesson was, exactly, but something about, like, not being the world’s whiniest fucking baby?

Whatever. It wasn’t like sucking cock was a hardship, and Steve _did_ untie him afterward, helping him up and giving him a good, long cuddle on the couch.

Bucky would have done a lot more for a lot less. Steve didn’t have to know that, though.

* * *

The next evening (roasting pan washed and dried, natch) found Steve and Bucky boarding their flight to Glasgow alongside Peggy, Natasha, Sam, Sharon, and the twins. They were the advance scouts, so to speak, whereas the rest of the guests were trickling in over the next day or so. Of the eight, Natasha was the only one without first-class experience, and Bucky noticed her looking a little shell-shocked over the accommodations.

By the time the plane touched down on the other side of the Atlantic, Bucky wasn’t sure what time it was. Middle of the night for him, mid-morning for them? He yawned his way through customs and immigration and was very relieved to see three drivers waiting as they reached the arrivals area. Part of him had worried they’d all be riding together, which, considering the twins had lost their respective minds somewhere over Greenland, he’d been dreading.

Waving gleefully at Sam and Sharon as they piled into the first car with their children, he and Steve let Peggy and Natasha take the second (because. they. were. fucking!) before climbing into the third. According to the driver, it would take them a couple of hours to get where they were going, and Bucky was determined to appreciate the beauty of the country they were driving through.

That lasted all of fifteen minutes; the last thing he saw before drifting off against the window was a sign for the Erskine Bridge.

Sleeping in a car was never fantastic, but jet-lag meant he was down for the count, and though he stirred and lifted his head a few times throughout the journey, it took Steve shaking his shoulder to rouse him.

“Wazzat?” he managed, wiping off the saliva that had collected on his cheek.

“We’re here,” Steve said, sitting stiff-backed and nervous as the car pulled through the gates of a...yep. A fucking castle. Which, alright, Bucky had seen the word on the invitations. But this was a lot. Steve was a lot.

Set against a slate grey sky, the castle was something out of a storybook, all turrets, towers, and tony landscaping. No doubt some developer had set upon it with millions of dollars and the dreams of wringing mountains of cash out of everyone with an Outlander fetish. So, like, hello, Steve Rogers.

“Wow,” Bucky managed, still half asleep.

“It was the only venue big enough that everyone could stay on-site,” Steve said, nerves evident in his voice. “I know it’s a little ostentatious—”

“I love it,” Bucky declared, leaning over to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. It wasn’t a lie, either. The castle was beautiful, and while Bucky played the cynic, he wasn’t immune to Steve’s over the top style. “It’s ridiculous. But I love it.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, his hesitance falling away as he shrugged. “The ceremony’s indoors because they said the weather is iffy this time of year, but we can do pictures outside if it’s nice, so—”

“Indoor wedding. Got it,” Bucky said, cutting him off before he could ramble. “That means no horse and carriage, right?”

“Do you want that? It’s an upgrade, but—”

“Steve!” he laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh. Right. No horse and carriage.”

“And _no_ kilts, right?”

“Did you see a kilt when you went for your fittings?”

“Doesn’t mean a kilt doesn’t exist.”

“There’s no kilt!”

They were interrupted by the car coming to a stop and the twins banging on the window, being as they’d arrived first.

“Hi,” Steve said, pushing the door open. “Where’d you two come from?”

“That car!” exclaimed Riley, who was four minutes older than her brother, Jack, and therefore much more mature.

“Oh, I see,” Steve nodded, getting out and offering each twin a hand. “I thought we left you guys at the airport. I’ve been trying to get rid of you all _day_ …”

“Uncle _Steve_!" Riley shrieked, which was about par for the course when you were eight, and your uncle was being a big idiot.

“And here I thought _we_ were the ones trying to lose _you_ ,” Sam said with a smirk.

“We should be so—hey, Jackie, that’s not a pool…” Sharon exclaimed before running after Jack, who had spotted a fountain

By the time Peggy and Natasha—who had somehow gotten behind Bucky and Steve’s car— arrived, the twins had run shrieking onto the lawn, chased by both their parents. Bucky didn’t envy them. Or, well, he only envied them a _little_.

Peggy, meanwhile, upon emerging from the car, took one look at Steve and burst out laughing.

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” she grinned. “You _tourist_.”

“What!” he protested with a laugh. “It’s nice!”

“It’s glorious,” she agreed. “I’m assuming you’ve hired the cast of bloody _Downton Abbey_ to serve us our tea?”

Steve hesitated. “I mean. No. But uh, there’s supposed to be a full breakfast waiting for us.”

Rolling her eyes, Peggy smiled and took his arm. “Lay on, MacDuff,” she said, before shouting across the lawn to the twins, “come and get your breakfast, you numpties!”

That solved the problem of the twins and the fountain, as the mere mention of food had them running towards their aunt, presuming she knew where to find the good stuff.

“This is ridiculous,” Natasha murmured to Bucky, the two of them hanging back from the other six so they could talk, moving at a considerably slower pace to the door.

“I know.”

“It is sweet, though,” she said after a moment’s pause.

“That’s who I’m marrying, right?” Bucky said. “Sweet and hilarious, all at once.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, leaning her head against his arm. “Long as you’re happy, I’m happy. And I’ll embrace the...sweet.”

“I appreciate your efforts.”

Natasha smiled, the two of them finally reaching the door and stepping inside, where they stopped short. “Oh, shit,” she laughed. “Your mother’s gonna _love_ this.”

“My mother,” Bucky replied, looking around the entry hall at the, frankly, obscene amount of tartan, “is going to rob this place blind.”

* * *

Breakfast had been laid out for them in what some enterprising person had called the morning room—presumably because it got sun in the morning. There was more food than they could possibly hope to eat in a sitting, but Bucky made a game attempt, wolfing down the better part of three potato scones, four eggs, and something called black pudding that was delicious, even if Sam kept casting horrified glances his way as he ate it.

“What?” he asked eventually.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

Bucky ate another mouthful out of spite, mostly. Plus, it really was delicious.

Once they’d eaten their fill, they were shown to their rooms, where their luggage had already been deposited. Briefly, back in December, Steve had floated the idea of them having separate rooms, as per tradition. Bucky had shot that down as the, “dumbest shit I ever heard,” so now they had one room, and one giant, four-poster canopy bed that looked so, _so_ warm and inviting after such a long day of travel.

Bucky loved that bed. Bucky was going to live in that bed. Bucky was going to curl up on it and—

“No,” Steve said, catching his wrist and pulling him back before he could faceplant.

“But, _Steve_!”

“Pal, you slept in the car. If you go to sleep now, you’ll be up all night, and your schedule’ll be fucked the whole trip.”

“Ugh. Fine, _dad_ ,” he snapped, and there was nothing sexy about it.

“Not my fault you didn’t sleep on the plane, grumpy.”

Twisting his mouth into a petulant little frown, Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. Whatever—watching movies on the plane was _important_. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Wasn’t tired then.”

“Gosh, Buck, I just feel so bad for you,” Steve teased. “Guess I could find a way to distract you…”

Bucky perked instantly, sidling closer and wrapping both arms around Steve’s waist. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Which was how he found himself stomping after Steve down the path that led from the castle to the coastline, hood over his head due to the light drizzle, grumbling all the while about how this _wasn’t_ what he had in mind.

Although, when they reached the edge of the cliffside that overlooked the choppy sea, even Bucky had to admit that it was hard to beat the view. Gulls swooping, waves crashing, it was positively Burnsian.

Steve pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist and leaning their heads together, Bucky back against his chest. The two of them stood silently for a long, long time taking it in.

“This,” Bucky said eventually, turning his head to kiss Steve’s cheek. “Is good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replied, sighing and giving his attention back to the water, hesitating for only a moment before beginning to recite. “Till all the seas go dry, my dear. And the rocks melt with the sun. I will love thee still, my dear. While the sands of life shall run.”

Steve kissed his temple and gave him an extra tight squeeze. “Is that a song, pal?”

“Poem,” he said. “Robbie Burns. He’s my ma’s favorite—she used that one when she married my dad, and she has a copy framed at home.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“So’s this place,” he replied, biting his lip and reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone, which he angled to snap a quick selfie of the two of them, bedraggled and grinning in the rain.

Maybe he _was_ a little bit of a romantic, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone keeping up with this during a busy time of year! Chapter 6 features in-castle shenanigans. Like: will Tony find anyone with whom to smoke a cigar? And what _does_ Peggy wear to bed? 
> 
> And now, for the whole reason people keep scrolling: art! [Kelsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelsey_fantasy), who designed the Save the Dates in chapter 3, has done a stunning invitation for the boys, which you can see in full below.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rehearsal dinner and an early morning encounter.

As rehearsal dinners went, Bucky and Steve's was decent. Top five, even, what with the sumptuous spread and the excellent company. All that, and they'd limited it to three speeches. There had been a standout example of the craft from Bucky's oldest sister, Becca; a bog-standard affair from Peggy; and a surprise addition from another one of Bucky's endless series of aunts, who'd gotten so soused that she'd thought it wise to pontificate on the meaning of marriage using nothing but Bon Jovi lyrics. The woman had been three minutes into the oration before her husband cut her off, and Peggy felt some measure of relief at knowing she wasn't the _worst_ speech of the evening.

(Becca really had been far and away the best, though, possessing the same natural charm that oozed from the pores of all four Barnes siblings, as well as their parents.)

Dinner ended at nine, at which point most of the older folks departed for bed. The younger crowd, conversely, retired to the lounge. Peggy, who liked to think of herself as teetering on the edge of respectable middle-age, stayed. Sam and Sharon, meanwhile, left to wrangle the twins into bed, which meant Peggy didn’t have as many options for conversation as she might have liked. The wedding guests, for better or for worse, tipped heavily in Bucky’s favor, and she didn’t know his people the same way she knew hers.

Except for Natasha, that was.

But things with Natasha were...well, they were what they were.

Their post-engagement party encounter, pleasant as it had been, hadn't lasted much beyond a quick cuddle on the couch. Natasha had gotten dressed, Peggy had called her a car, and she'd gone home while Peggy fought down niggling feelings of guilt over the entire affair. It wasn't as though they'd done anything intense—Peggy very much doubted a drop. Honestly, people made a bigger deal out of sub drop than was strictly necessary, and Natasha wasn't one for coddling. All the same, Peggy _had_ texted her the next morning to inquire as to her state of mind.

Natasha had replied with a smiley-faced emoji, and that had been that. They hadn’t seen one another alone again, and their only conversations in the intervening months had been a few tossed off “Merry Christmas” and “Happy New Year” texts, as well as a brief ships-passing-in-the-night encounter at Bucky’s birthday party. They’d exchanged kisses on the cheek when Natasha arrived just as Peggy was leaving, and nothing more.

Which was all fine. It wasn't as though Peggy formed lasting relationships with any of her scene partners. The last long-term person she'd invested in had been Steve, which had worked out about as well as anything else. Read: poorly. Plus, she didn't need the drama of a twenty-seven (six? Eight?) year-old in her life. No matter how mature Natasha seemed, there was _always_ drama at that age.

However, despite Peggy’s stiff upper lip and resolution to keep her distance, the car ride from the airport to the castle had been unsettling. Natasha had been genial and polite, but she hadn’t been warm, and Peggy found herself bothered by that. Natasha was a minx of a thing, too beautiful by half and bendy to boot. But she was also good fun, and Peggy had enjoyed her friendship during the party planning process as much as anything else. A small part of her had been hoping to rekindle that camaraderie during the wedding weekend, and realizing she might have wasted the opportunity upset Peggy more than she cared to admit.

It was her own fault, of course. She’d mucked it up by bringing sex into it; giving into her base impulses and fucking Natasha without rules or expectations. It was a novice’s mistake, and while she was no novice, Peggy had no idea how to fix what she’d broken.

So, she’d let Natasha be, and now there she was. Alone on a couch, trying not to frown into her drink as she watched Natasha play some stupid drinking game with Clint Barton and his date.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bucky asked, appearing out of nowhere to flop down next to her, a nearly-empty glass of something in his hand.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she sniffed, injecting an imperious quality into her tone, the way she often did when she was tipsy. Remnants of a boarding school education, she supposed, made all the worse when someone started poking at a sore spot.

“You look like someone killed your cat.”

“Haven’t got a cat.”

“Pffff.” He grinned, waving his hand through the air. “S’my wedding, okay? You...be happy.”

Ah. Slightly tipsy, himself, then. That was alright—it was his party. “I am happy, darling,” she said, hoping to placate him. “Just worn out.”

“Go to bed, then.”

“Well, I _would_ ,” she said. “But then I’d miss all the fun.”

“Fun,” he agreed, eyes drifting to where his middle sister was most undoubtedly flirting with the brother of the girl named...Wendy? Wanda? “Jesus. He’s like ten years older than her.”

Peggy burst out laughing. “You’re one to talk!”

“That’s different!”

“Mmm.”

“Whatever. Hey, thanks for doing your speech. It was really nice.”

“To be damned with faint praise,” she said. “Thank you.”

“No, it was!” he spluttered with a laugh. “It’s just weird having everyone talking about us. Like, that stuff you said about how you knew we were like...destined. You were so nice, but…” he trailed off, shrugging.

“But?”

“I mean, you didn’t think it was, right? When we first got together, you like...told Steve you didn’t approve.”

“Gosh, you _do_ know how to pick a scab, don’t you?”

“Well, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to put that in your bloody wedding speech.”

“Oh. Right. But now...you like me, right?”

“Yes, Bucky. I like you fine.”

He was quiet for a minute, letting his head fall back against the couch. “Remember when you fired me?”

Peggy pursed her lips, unsure of precisely where he was going. “I do, yes.”

“I fuckin’ _hated_ you for that.”

“I know.”

“And then, like, remember when you came over to my apartment?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I was gonna like...tell you what I thought of you, right? But then I was like, why is she even _here_? And then you apologized, and I didn’t know what to do, and you offered me all that money, and I was just like—”

“Bucky, is there a point to this?”

“Jesus,” he cackled. “You’re so fuckin’ mean. Yes, there’s a point.”

“I’m aquiver with anticipation.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes and turning to face her. “I’m just _saying_ that it’s like, really weird how we ended up here? But here we are. And I’m glad you’re here because I love you and you’re my friend.”

Peggy didn’t bother to hide her smile as she leaned over, kissing his cheek and catching a whiff of the whisky on his breath. “I’m glad I’m here, and I love you as well. Mostly, I’m glad you chose to forgive me.”

“I’m a very furgliv...fur _gliv_...I’m not even mad, Pegs.”

God, she liked Bucky. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s that husband of yours?”

“Not _yet_ , but uh...Tony was gonna make him smoke a cigar, so I think he ran away.”

“Ah. Shall I help you find him?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sit tight,” she instructed, rising to her feet and going in search of Steve.

After poking her head into no fewer than six rooms, she found him in the one designated as the library, though that was a bit rich, considering. It held all of four bookshelves, filled with the tatty books one tended to buy on holiday—romance novels and ornithological guidebooks. That sort of thing. Steve was perusing one of the latter variety, eyes fixed on a page with several illustrations of finches.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, startling him with the sound of her voice. “Gosh, darling, sorry. Are the birds that interesting?”

“What birds?” he replied, which was telling.

“Your book,” she said gently, stepping inside and shutting the door.

“Oh. Right. No, I was—”

“Hiding?”

Sheepish, he shrugged. “Guilty.”

“Your betrothed sent me to find you. I had him stay put—he’s rat-arsed.”

“His sisters are a terrible influence.”

“You ought to go and take him to bed,” she teased. “You’re getting married in the morning, or haven’t you heard?”

“Ha ha. And shows what you know, Carter—the ceremony’s not until two.”

“Details, details,” she piffled, sitting down across from him in one of the two squashy armchairs the room boasted.

Steve smiled, and she knew him well enough to know that it was the smile of a man who was a bit out of sorts. God knew he rarely showed that vulnerability to anyone—the pride masking his soft underbelly, which never failed to remind her of the gawky young man she’d met during her early days at StarkTech. Bespectacled and shy, unable to say two words to her without tripping over his own tongue, yet quite prone to picking fights with anyone who deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

“My darling,” she said as his mouth began to turn down at the corners. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“It’s—” he shook his head. “Everything.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Steve sighed, pushing a hand through his hair and closing his eyes briefly, then looking right at her with his usual intensity. “I wanted to have this big, ridiculous wedding, right? For Bucky, because he deserves it. But he’s not…” he huffed out a breath. “I know he _let_ me do this for him. We’re not here because he wants to be here, we’re here because he knows I wanted to do this, and...shit, it’s too fucking much, right? I never know, and I can’t help thinking that he’s unhappy because I steamrolled him, and—”

“Steve,” she said, stopping him before he could work up a head of steam by placing a firm hand on his arm. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the reason he _let_ you do it, is because making you happy makes _him_ happy?”

It wasn’t terribly profound reasoning, but Peggy felt sure she was right. Steve and Bucky suited one another—Bucky’s go-along-to-get-along nature balanced Steve’s more tempestuous one, while Steve’s strength and certitude in his desires caused Bucky to stand up for himself and his own needs more often than not. It stood to reason, then, that if Bucky had given Steve free rein in the matter of their marriage, it was because he saw the benefit in doing so, not because he’d been bullied.

“Shit, Peg,” he frowned. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s gonna wake up one day and figure out just how much he doesn’t need me before he walks out the goddamn door.”

Pre-wedding jitters, no doubt. Peggy couldn’t relate, but she could at least try and empathize. Mulling his words over, she waited a moment before speaking. “I have a thought on that. But I’m not very good at putting things delicately…”

“True.”

“...so I’m just going to say it.”

“Alright.”

“Bucky already knows he doesn’t need you,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm. “He wakes up every _day_ and knows he doesn’t need you.”

“Gee, Peg, you weren’t kidd—”

“But he _wants_ you. He’s choosing you. He loves you. And Christ, Steve, isn’t that better?”

Strange, how true she believed that to be—that theirs was a partnership of equals. In the beginning, her reservations about their relationship had been predicated on the imbalance between them; not Bucky’s age, necessarily, but his job, and the complicating factors of their positions. Now? They were as well-matched as any two people she’d ever known, which was saying something, considering her particular perspective on the matter.

Life _was_ a funny old thing.

“That’s—” Steve laughed, laying one hand atop hers. “I never thought about it that way before.”

“Course you haven’t,” she said, nudging her knee against his. “You like to think you don’t _need_ anybody, so it never occurs to you that he loves you just as much as you love him. That’s not about needing or being needed, it’s about wanting, as I said. So stop fucking worrying and marry him.”

“I…” he trailed off, ears going red as he gave her a grin. “I’m being an idiot.”

“Yes,” she agreed, getting to her feet and offering him a hand. “Now. I was sent to deliver you to your beloved, and I intend to fulfill my mission. Shall we?”

“By all means.”

They made their way back to the lounge, where Bucky was curled up on the couch, just where she’d left him. Such a very good boy, indeed.

“I found him for you,” she said, pushing Steve forward as Bucky cracked an eye open.

“Hi,” Bucky grinned, sitting up. His new haircut, which Peggy found rather fetching, had mashed itself against the cushions in such a way that it was sticking straight up on one side.

“Hi. You’re half-asleep, huh, pal?”

“Yeah. Let’s go to bed?”

“Sure,” Steve agreed before hauling him up by both hands. Bucky made a show of it, hanging off Steve and going limp in his arms, which Peggy assumed was meant to make Steve feel the strapping hero, dragging him off to bed. “Night, Peg.”

“Yeah, night, Pegs.”

“Goodnight, you two.”

Once they’d disappeared down the hall, she looked around the room and found the crowd had thinned further. Now, she knew no-one, save for Tony, who had yet to find someone with whom to smoke a cigar.

Being as only an unlucky fish took bad bait, Peggy scarpered before his roving eye landed on her. She returned to her room, where she washed her face and combed her hair, then changed into a pair of warm, fleece pajamas. The accommodations were lovely, but any place that old had a draft or two, and she was glad she’d packed warm things. Didn’t hurt that the bed boasted a wonderfully heavy duvet, and the housekeeping staff came round every evening to slip a hot water bottle beneath it.

The alcohol still in her system helped her drift off quickly after turning out the light, slipping into a pleasant sleep punctuated by a dream in which she was at work, but someone kept knocking on her door. Knocking and knocking and...no, wasn’t dreaming. She was half-awake, and the knock was real. A persistent little tapping at her chamber door. Groaning, she groped for her phone and saw it had just turned two, which was the most uncivilized hour of the morning, really. One was acceptable, three was respectable, but nothing good happened at two. Swinging her feet out of bed, she shivered her way across the cold floor, assuming there had been a fire or _some_ sort of emergency that necessitated such nonsense.

Nothing doing—it was only Natasha standing on the other side, glassy-eyed and smiling in a thin cotton vest and sleep shorts. Christ, Peggy felt cold just looking at her.

“Hi,” Natasha said, looking at her with an impish little smile. “Can I come in?” 

* * *

Going to Peggy’s room was a bad idea. Natasha knew it was a bad idea. Shit, she wasn’t even all that drunk anymore, so there was no use passing it off as a decision born of total inebriation.

It was Clint’s fault. Clint and his shots. Peggy’s fault, too, wearing that plain navy dress with white trim that hugged every curve on her body.

The body that Natasha had yet to see, even though Peggy had seen _her_ stark naked before getting her off in _spectacular_ fashion.

Not that Natasha had been thinking about it since then. Not that she’d lain awake at night, fingers circling her clit, remembering the way Peggy had decimated her with hands and mouth and tongue, reducing her to a shivering, quivering mess as she begged for release. The way Peggy had given her orders, and she’d followed them despite the bits of her brain that told her not to. Told her it was undignified and degrading even as she’d done it anyway. _Liked_ it anyway. Would have done all that and more if Peggy had asked it of her.

(Some small part of her psyche would have clamored to crawl across broken glass if it might have made Peggy tell her what a good girl she was.

Fuck.)

After the incident, Natasha had deliberately kept her distance. Cooled off on the texting and pretended that it didn't matter; that she didn't want more. Probably it was better that way because Peggy had broken her open and looked inside and found some bit of her that she wasn't entirely ready to admit to needing. So no. It wouldn't be a good idea to go back for round two.

In the interim, Natasha had gone to Bucky for advice, although she hadn’t mentioned it was _Peggy_ she’d played with, because he probably would have found that weird. Instead, she’d kept the details vague, telling him that she’d dipped her toe into kink, and wanted to talk it over. That revelation had earned her a skeptical look (like he was so fucking wise), so she’d kicked him under the table, and he’d hollered, and then he’d tried to _therapize_ her, which was absolutely not cool.

Still, his advice hadn’t been terrible. He’d given her some actual, useful, actionable information about what she should do if she wanted to further explore her newfound kinky proclivities.

And she _had_ tried. She'd gone to a munch, and a newbie night at one of the clubs he'd recommended. Oh, and she'd made a FetLife profile, too. Even joined a couple groups that looked interesting. Nothing much had come of it, save for having to block a couple assholes who sent her gross messages on Fet and having to use her _most_ withering stare on every salivating straight fucker who glanced her way at the club.

What she _hadn’t_ done was find anyone to play with, although there were options. God knew she could have screwed around with some random person, but when she contemplated letting a woman she barely knew touch her, or tease her, or make her vulnerable? Nah. That wasn't gonna happen.

She hadn’t been back to the club since, nor had she logged on to Fet.

But she _had_ been thinking about Peggy.

Which was why, a little drunk and a lot horny, she’d gotten out of bed at two in the morning and made her way to Peggy’s room, which was only two doors down from her own. It was fucking cold, and she stood there shivering for a good two minutes, tap-tap-tapping on the door. Peggy didn’t seem to be in any hurry to answer, but then, maybe she’d been asleep. And hey, the cold wasn’t all bad—Natasha’s nipples were on prominent display in the tight tank top she wore, and Peggy _had_ been pretty interested in her tits the last time around. She would take what she could get if it meant sex was on the table.

Eventually, she heard shuffling on the other side of the door. When Peggy swung it open, however, she looked decidedly different than Natasha's fantasy of finding her in a filmy negligee and nothing else. Instead, she stood bleary-eyed and blinking in a pair of oversized flannel pajamas, her hair a sleep-mussed tangle atop her head, and a pair of glasses perched on her makeup-less face.

Ugh. Why did that make her even _more_ attractive?

“Hi,” Natasha said, doing her best to sound coy and sober. “Can I come in?”

Peggy gave her an appraising glance, eyes roving up and down her body, which didn’t do anything to lessen Natasha’s libido as she straightened her spine. “It’s two in the morning,” Peggy said with a sigh.

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m…” Considering her words carefully, Natasha shrugged. “I have _been_ drunk. Now I’m on the downslope to sober.”

“The downslope to sober.”

"Yes," she said, before jutting her lower lip into a pout. Bucky was always pouting at Steve, and Natasha was pretty sure Steve would let him get away with actual murder and then help him cut up and incinerate the body. "I'm freezing…"

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Peggy said, folding her arms across her chest. “Your bed is warm.”

“I lost my key,” she lied.

Peggy raised an eyebrow. “Then go down to the office and ask for another.”

This woman was impossible. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because...I’m too drunk.”

Natasha knew she had her when she saw the briefest hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

“Fine,” Peggy said, stepping back and ushering her in. “You may sleep here.”

Nearly dancing a lust-addled jig, Natasha stepped into the room, which was as nicely appointed as her own, because Steve Rogers was a lot. However, Peggy’s abode was a fair bit messier, which was interesting—she hadn’t pegged Peg (ha) as a slob, mostly because her house was immaculate, and she always looked perfectly put together. The room, though, belied her sloppiness, with the contents of her suitcase strewn about, and enough cosmetics to stock a counter scattered across the dresser.

“Right, you,” Peggy said. “Shake a leg, get into bed.”

“Uh…” Natasha glanced over with a grin. “Yes, ma’am?”

Peggy snorted, brushing past her and peeling back the covers. “No. I’m cream crackered, and we’ve both to be up for breakfast by eight.”

“But…”

“According to the schedule,” she continued, cutting Natasha off at the knees. “You’ve to be in hair and makeup by ten.”

“Ugh.”

“And you’ll need to shower before that. Steve’s got a full day planned for the wedding party—”

“ _Ugh_.”

“Quite,” Peggy agreed with a satisfied little smirk. “Frankly, I’m relieved I managed to talk him into having Sam stand up for him. You ought to have thrown Clint at Bucky, seen if he’d latch on.”

Natasha groaned, already dreading the day ahead, or at least the part of it where she was going to have to pose for a million pictures after having a stranger fuck with her hair. “I’m doing it because I _love_ Bucky,” she countered, getting in on the opposite side of the bed and yanking at the covers.

“I love Steve,” Peggy shrugged. “But I gave my speech tonight.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll hate me more when I wake you in the morning,” she replied, before reaching over to turn out the lamp. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

"Night," she muttered, rolling onto her side, so her back was to Peggy.

Stupid _wedding_. In all the fun of the evening, she’d sort of forgotten that she was going to have a part to play the next day. Not a _huge_ part, but she still had duties and responsibilities which put a damper on the whole booty-call business. Granted, the fact that said booty-call was the one shutting her down before things could even get started didn’t help.

Which, come to think of it, _Peggy_ wasn’t the one who had places to be in the morning. She could sleep in, and Natasha could definitely rally. Wasn’t that what your twenties were for? Fucking up, then sucking it up the next day.

Except Peggy wasn’t in her twenties, and while Natasha hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about that, it was a fact.

Natasha wasn’t like Bucky, though—going after the hot, older guy. Gal. But she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that part of what made Peggy attractive was her stability. The way her house felt like a _house_ and not like a collection of crap shoved into some semblance of order. Peggy’s carpet matched her curtains (not in a euphemistic way), and her coffee table was made of wood rather than slapped together particle board from Ikea. Hell, she probably had an assistant, and a calendar, and took vacations and could go shopping whenever she wanted and never had to worry about whether or not she’d be able to afford to eat during those last few days of the month.

And yeah, alright, she was also an anomaly in that she was ridiculously successful and wealthy, but even if she wasn't, she was still at an age where, generally, one had one's shit together.

Or, okay, Natasha was pretty sure she was at that age, though she wasn’t entirely certain. Because Steve was...hmm, Steve was definitely turning forty this year. She knew that because Bucky had already begun planning how he was going to find the perfect gift that would both piss him off and make him smile. It stood to reason, then, that Peggy and Steve were around the same age, considering their history.

That inevitably begged the question: was Peggy forty? Natasha wasn’t quite twenty-eight, so if Peggy was forty, that would put them about...Jesus, thirteen years apart. Peggy could have been her babysitter—not that she’d ever had babysitters, with her grandmother right there.

But if she _had_ had babysitters, Peggy could have been one. Natasha probably would have had a crush on her. Which, hey, there was a fun little fantasy. Naif Natasha and older, wiser, worldly Peg.

“Hey,” Natasha whispered into the darkness, unable to properly enjoy that particular scenario without knowing all the facts.

“What?”

“Are you forty?”

“ _What_?”

“I need to know. Are you forty.”

There was a pause and a sharp intake of breath. "No." Another pause, this one longer. "I'll be forty next month."

“Oh.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware it’s rude to ask something like that?”

“I am, yes.”

Peggy sighed, and Natasha felt her moving around a bit, covers pulled taut as she punched her pillow twice to fluff it up. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

“Goodnight.”

Natasha did try to sleep, though it was ultimately futile. She drifted a little, but couldn’t actually drop off, because she sucked at sleeping in beds that weren’t _her_ bed. Didn’t even matter that her bed was no more than a lumpy-mattressed double she’d bought when Dottie moved in. A lumpy-mattressed double that was now empty and sad and didn’t even _smell_ like Dottie anymore. Which, fuck, when exactly had she gotten so pathetic?

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, wondering how much time had gone by. Peggy’s breathing had evened out, and at least she didn’t snore. Snoring would have ruined the illusion of Peggy and her Peggyness, honestly.

Briefly, Natasha wondered what Peggy would do if she spooned her.

God, she really should have just stayed in her own room and masturbated, because at least then she’d have gotten _some_ sort of satisfaction.

Huffing, she curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and trying to fall asleep once more. Eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, she drifted into a hazy, alcohol-remnant-induced doze, which wasn't exactly restful but helped pass the time.

Some time later, the doze was disturbed by the sound of at least two walking down the hallway outside Peggy’s door. _Stumbling_ down the hallway, actually—there was a giggle and a ‘shhhhh!' followed by a loud thunk.

“Christ,” came Peggy’s voice beside her. “Children.” 

“What time is it?” Natasha asked, yawning and rubbing her tired eyes. She might not have nodded off for more than a wink or two at a time, but she was feeling much more clear-headed. That, naturally, meant owning the fact that she’d _definitely_ propositioned Peggy at two in the morning, gotten turned down, and had slept in her bed anyway, like the pathetic thing she was.

“Six-thirty,” Peggy replied.

“Fuh-huuuuuck.”

“Go back to sleep, then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t sleep when I’m not in my own bed.”

The mattress shifted, and Natasha rolled over to find Peggy half-sitting, propped on one arm so she could look down at her. “Have you been lying there awake all night?”

“No...well, not _exactly_. I dozed.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are—” Peggy began, before shaking her head.

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“No. What?”

“The most _confusing_ creature,” she relented with a sigh. “I wasn’t going to fuck you, and you _knew_ you weren’t going to be able to sleep, yet you made the choice to lie there all night rather than going back to your room where you could have at least entertained yourself—”

“Maybe I was lonely,” she wheedled, once again playing the pouting card that worked so well for Bucky, although any fool could see it had been less about loneliness and more about horniness with her.

Peggy snorted because she was much smarter than a fool.

“Or _maybe_ ,” Natasha countered, trying a different tack. “I was hoping you’d wake up and change your mind. Ma’am.”

For a brief moment, Natasha wondered whether she was about to be summarily dismissed from Peggy's room. When she spoke again, her voice was icy. "Do I strike you as someone prone to sudden changes of heart, pet?"

Christ. _Right_ to the clit, sex throbbing as she squeezed her thighs together and shrugged. “Yes, ma’am.”

The affirmative answer, having caught Peggy off-guard, actually made her laugh, shoulders slumping as they shook. Once she’d recovered, she smiled, before leaning down to kiss Natasha’s forehead. “You are a riot, did you know that?”

“Thanks?”

Peggy shook her head and reached over to turn on the lamp, casting a warm glow through the dark room. “Natasha…” she began, before sighing. “After last time, you didn’t seem very interested in...pursuing anything.”

“Neither did you,” she countered.

“I was letting you take the lead.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to,” she replied, voice sharper than she’d meant it to be.

Peggy frowned, sitting up straight and lifting her hands in defeat. “I do _like_ you, Natasha, but I’m not sure what it is that you’re asking for.”

WIth the question hanging in the air between them, Natasha found she wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to ask for any number of things—wanted someone to take charge of her. Drop her to her knees. Make her crawl and cry and beg and do the million other depraved deeds that her mind had been making a meal out of since that first attempt. She wanted to be frightened, and teased, and tormented, and taken apart. But more than any of that? She wanted Peggy to be the one doing it.

“Just you,” she said finally, the answer honest if not earth-shattering.

“Just me.”

“I want to be good for you,” she said, sitting up properly so they could look at one another face to face. “ _To_ you.”

“To me?” Peggy said, raising an eyebrow. “How?”

A dangerous question, though she went with something simple in the end. Something she knew from experience would impress. Because if she was going to convince Peggy to take another chance with her, after ghosting on the last one, she was going to have to show her she was worth it.

“I could eat you out,” she offered, only to be met by one of Peggy’s eyebrow quirks.

“Could you?”

There was something about the way she said it—like she didn’t quite believe it—that made Natasha bristle. “Yeah, _actually_. I’m really good at it.”

Fucking Peggy and her fucking smiles, especially the one she trained on Natasha at that moment, like a wolf cornering its prey. "Alright, then, little girl," she agreed, pushing back the covers. "I'm all yours."

Somehow, Natasha didn’t think it would be that simple. Peggy wouldn’t allow it to be. All the same, she was undeterred. Because if Bucky Barnes was the self-proclaimed Fellini of fellatio (a title he had drunkenly claimed for himself more than once), Natasha was the connoisseur of cunnilingus. The maven of muff-diving. The most learned of uh...labia lickers? Whatever. Yes. She was all of those things, and Peggy Carter didn’t even _know_ what she was in for.

Which was what made it all the more infuriating when Natasha’s voice came out a hesitant squeak moments later. “Lie back?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

Jesus Motherfucking God. “Telling you,” she gritted.

“Is that right?” Peggy said, reclining against the pillows, hands resting on her stomach with an infuriatingly placid expression on her face.

God damn it. Natasha was going to eat the _hell_ out of this woman.

Scooting closer, she took a deep breath and leaned in, bringing her lips to Peggy’s for a kiss. Or, well, half a kiss. Natasha was kissing. Peggy was doing absolutely nothing to assist.

Peggy was mean.

Natasha huffed out a frustrated sigh, pulling back and scowling at the gleam she saw in Peggy’s eyes.

“You’re _enjoying_ this,” she grumbled.

“Rather.”

No kissing, then. Peggy could control kissing too easily. Better to focus on areas that were more likely to produce spontaneous reactions under a liberal application of teeth and tongue. Armed with that plan, Natasha began to unbutton Peggy’s pajama top with the laser focus of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. Peggy, mercifully, moved her hands away when Natasha reached the lower buttons, allowing her to push the material away and reveal—

Fuck.

Okay, so. _Objectively_? Sure, Natasha found every set of tits perfect in their own way. Big or small, she loved ‘em all. But Peggy’s were of the variety that had long set her loins aquiver—a fascination that was nearly a fetish for tits that were so full and heavy a body could just about fall asleep on them. Peggy’s breasts were bigger than her own, which was saying something, stretch-marked and _real_ , every bit of them, right down to the slight sag and the way the left nipple was just _slightly_ lower than the right. Those imperfections marked them as worldly tits; tits of experience. Ugh, Natasha knew she had an oral fixation, but seeing those perfectly pink nipples made her want to lay her head down and suck and bite and—

Christ. Was that an Oedipal complex? What _was_ an Oedipal complex when you got off on the idea of...you know what? Nevermind. Wasn’t important to parse out right then and there. Not when Peggy’s tits lay untouched before her.

Natasha dipped her head low to taste, tongue tripping across Peggy’s left nipple, which perked right up under the attention. Frustratingly for Natasha, though, Peggy didn’t move a muscle, even as she swirled her tongue around the nub, flicking it once or twice for good measure. Frowning, she switched to the opposite side, giving slightly-higher righty the same amount of attention. Still nothing. What the fuck? It _had_ to feel good. Of course it felt good!

Annoyed, Natasha bit down, which did provoke a reaction, though not the one she was hoping for. Peggy hissed, her hand coming up fast as lightning to fist in Natasha’s hair, yanking her head back sharply, the same way she had when Natasha had kicked the couch.

“Don’t. Bite,” Peggy rebuked, giving her a shake as though Natasha were some misbehaving animal who’d been caught pissing on the rug. _Fuck_ , and there was another appealing idea. Not the piss, but the degradation and, alright, no. Not the time. Focus, Romanov.

“Sorry,” she muttered, even though she wasn’t _really_ , but mostly wanted to play with Peggy’s tits again.

“Ma’am,” Peggy corrected, releasing her hold on Natasha’s hair and allowing her to get back to work.

Turned out, just because Peggy didn’t want _biting_ didn’t mean that teeth were out of the question altogether. Scraping, nibbling, additional flicking—there were all sorts of tricks in Natasha’s toolkit that eventually drew a moan out of Peggy. This was, of course, to Natasha’s immense satisfaction, as she had become convinced through her efforts that it would have been easier to draw blood from a stone.

When Natasha’s fingers began creeping towards the waistband of Peggy’s pajama bottoms, however, she was met with another source of resistance, as Peggy caught her wrist and gave it a squeeze.

What the actual fuck? Did she _not_ want Natasha getting down to business?

“Little _pet_ ,” Peggy chided, holding her wrist firmly. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

It was amazing, Natasha decided, this superpower of Peggy’s: the ability to make her feel very stupid and small and also very, very, _very_ turned on by it. “Um. I thought you wanted me to…?”

“I said you could eat me out,” she replied idly. “That doesn’t involve hands, in my experience. So let’s keep them behind our back, shall we?”

Natasha’s face burned at the instruction, because no. She wasn’t going to do that. Wasn’t going to debase herself by trying to undress Peggy with her teeth, not when her fingers could prove useful in both that endeavor and...other things.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Peggy asked, her voice sharp in a way that had Natasha’s spine stiffening.

God damn it. This woman had all of her numbers.

“No, ma’am,” she mumbled, hands moving to comply as she gripped her elbows behind her back the way Peggy had shown her before.

Giving a curt nod, Peggy showed her some small kindness by lifting her hips and pushing her bottoms down, saving Natasha the trouble. As Natasha had expected, Peggy kept her pussy as well-groomed as the rest of her appearance—dark hair, trimmed neatly, but very much _there_. Dottie had always been shaved, and while Natasha had adopted her habits during the time they were together, seeing Peggy reminded her that the world of genitalia was a rich tapestry and, oh, Jesus, add that to the ever-growing list of turn-ons.

Peggy's breath hitched, drawing Natasha's attention to her face, which was radiating tension, her lips pulled into a thin line. The thought occurred to her that Peggy might actually be kind of nervous? Which was ridiculous, because like...there was no way Peggy _didn’t_ fuck. Constantly. With multiple people. And yet. There she was. A little nervous.

For all that she couldn’t fathom why, Natasha wasn’t about to let her down.

Scooting towards the middle of the bed, Natasha settled herself beside Peggy’s calf and bent at the waist to press a line of kisses up her inner thigh. This was meant to coax Peggy into opening her legs so Natasha could move between them; however, Peggy seemed content to remain closed up tighter than a drum. Luckily, in her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature had placed the clit in a place where one did not necessarily _need_ spread legs. Natasha smiled, her kisses reaching the apex of Peggy’s thighs, where she placed a final kiss to her mound, forehead resting against the softness of her stomach. Another difference—Dottie had been hard muscle and lines, Peggy was curves and comfort.

"Please, ma'am?" she asked, the words hardly having left her before she pressed her tongue against Peggy's slit, as best she could manage. It took her a minute, and it wasn't the most elegant approach, but it worked eventually—Peggy relaxed under her touch, legs spreading slightly and a long, low moan leaving her throat when Natasha first touched her tongue to her clit. It wasn't the sort of moan that came from someone used to regular service, but again: that was ridiculous. Peggy belonged to at least three sex clubs if Bucky was to be believed. She got laid all the time.

Probably Peggy was just being nice, in her way, by making Natasha think she was accomplishing something. Whatever it was, she took advantage of Peggy’s newly parted legs, settling between them without moving her head from its position any more than she absolutely had to. Once she was comfortable, she sighed, pleased when the exhale sent a shudder through Peggy, who drew her thighs up alongside Natasha’s shoulders and let her knees fall open.

Natasha’s preferred method was taking things slowly, so she started with teasing kisses, barely grazing her mouth along Peggy’s flushed skin. Frustratingly, Peggy wasn’t all that wet yet, which Natasha was bound and determined to remedy. However, without fingers to assist, she had to be strategic, and so she began licking slow stripes along Peggy’s lips, going a little deeper each time.

Hard work bred success, Peggy's hips moving along with Natasha's mouth, the trickle becoming a flood as her body responded and Natasha slipped her tongue inside, as far as it would go, just to taste her. That got a gasp, and a bitten off cry, back arching as Peggy's hand moved to cup her breast. Achievement unlocked, and fuck, Natasha loved this. Loved figuring out what drove someone wild. She'd _missed_ it, too. Because maybe she'd gotten a little bit lazy with Dottie towards the end. Checking the boxes, as it were—one finger, two fingers, tongue on the clit and a finger in the ass for good measure.

With Peggy, though, it was all a mystery to uncover, and without her fingers to assist, Natasha had to go purely on instinct and body language. Dragging her tongue from Peggy's entrance, she hummed out a breath and worked her way up to her clit, where she lay two tiny little licks before blowing a stream of cool air across the sensitive spot. Peggy groaned, her left foot lifting from the bed and her leg draping over Natasha's shoulder, nudging her forward. Natasha could take a hint and focused her attention on Peggy's clit to the neglect of all else. She spelled her name with her tongue, then Peggy's, then started in on the alphabet.

She’d just gotten to the letter I—lowercase, obviously, punctuating it with a quick flick of her tongue—when Peggy kicked her none-too-gently in the shoulder.

“Fuck, _fuck_ …” she managed. “Just like that.”

Natasha, who really did like to tease, stopped the alphabet altogether, pulling back enough that Peggy would be able to feel her breath and nothing else. She was rewarded with a growl, Peggy flexing the leg she’d wrapped around her, which served as surprisingly effective leverage in forcing Natasha forward. Then, Peggy’s hand caught in her hair once more, holding her head in place as her hips arched off the bed, Natasha’s whole world narrowing to the taste of Peggy, the smell of Peggy, the very _essence_ of Peggy.

Turned out, Peggy didn’t like being teased. Natasha was fine with that.

“Faster,” Peggy said, the command cutting through Natasha like a knife, her tongue beginning to lap against Peggy’s clit before her brain had time to register the order.

Who the fuck needed oxygen? Not Natasha, that was for goddamn sure. Air was for idiots who _didn’t_ have their mouths otherwise occupied.

Poetic as that was, however, she had to reconsider a minute later when she _actually_ needed to breathe. When she began to struggle, Peggy released her long enough that she could suck in a single lungful before she was yanked back into place and forced to get back to work. It wasn’t enough air, and yet somehow that didn’t matter because it felt _good_ not to breathe...felt good to be used...to be the source of someone else’s pleasure beyond any of her own needs, or wants, or desires.

Natasha’s tongue undulated against Peggy’s clit with as much pressure as she could muster, desperate to please and nearly sobbing with relief when Peggy came with a shout, grinding her sex against Natasha’s open mouth like she was nothing but a toy—a willing tongue with hair to pull. God, Natasha ought to have resented it. Ought to have been embarrassed at allowing herself to be so controlled. Yet, even as Peggy released her, all she could think about as she lay there gasping for air, was the throbbing between her own legs.

Jesus, she wanted more. Visions of Peggy sitting directly on her face, smothering her until she begged for mercy. Trapping her between those thighs until she passed out, maybe. Saw stars, at least. Fuck, _fuck_. Natasha gave a plaintive little whine, nuzzling her still-wet nose against Peggy’s trembling thigh.

“Come here, pet,” Peggy said after a moment had passed, voice quavering. Natasha wasted no time in accepting the invitation, wrapping her arms around Peggy’s body and pillowing her cheek on her right breast, just the way she’d wanted to before.

Considering how much things felt like the afterglow, it came as a surprise to Natasha when, a few minutes later, Peggy’s left hand slipped into her shorts and cupped her sex, middle finger sliding along her slit.

“All wet again,” Peggy purred. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Nnn,” Natasha nodded, letting out a yowl when Peggy’s fingers found her clit and gave it the gentlest of pinches. “Fuck, I mean, yes, ma’am!”

Peggy leaned in to kiss her before beginning to work her fingers with brisk, practiced efficiency. Much as before, it took no time at all for Natasha to fall apart, thighs trembling as she came, with a series of hitching cries, her open mouth pressed against Peggy’s. She was still shaking, in fact, when Peggy pulled her hand away and held her glistening fingers to Natasha’s mouth. Confused, Natasha stared, her brain having deserted her several minutes prior.

Perhaps taking pity, Peggy gave her the gist of the request by pressing the tip of her index finger to Natasha’s lips. “There’s a good girl—clean up your own mess.” 

Natasha had no protest to mount as she opened her mouth and sucked the taste of herself off each of Peggy's fingers until there was nothing left. Humiliating? Yeah, maybe, though she honestly wasn't sure anymore. All she knew was that she liked this, and while it was all well and good to play coy, she was in deep. For better or for worse.

Peggy shifted their positions once the deed was done, allowing Natasha to lie tucked up against her, mouth near her nipple. Natasha officially wasn’t complaining about that one bit.

“You are…” Peggy said, before trailing off.

“What?”

“You make me…” she began again, before sighing. “No, that’s not fair. You don’t _make_ me do anything. But I’m not...well. Actually, I _am_ sorry that I did that without asking.”

“Did what?”

“The breathplay. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Oh. It doesn’t matter—I liked it.”

Peggy’s hand moved to smooth back mussed hair from Natasha’s sweaty forehead. “Much as I appreciate your enjoyment, it’s not good practice to do something like that without giving you a way to stop me.”

“Uh, like punching you in the tit and telling you to stop? I’m pretty sure I could have done that.”

Snorting, Peggy tweaked her nose between her middle and index fingers. “Yes, smartarse. I suppose you could have done that. All the same, we should have worked it out in advance, and—”

"Look," Natasha said because she felt terrific and happy and squishy and didn't want to spoil that with a lecture. "I know what a safeword is, alright? I'm not naive. I've been reading a lot of articles, and I went to a munch. And a club. I get it. I just...I don't want to do these things with someone I don't know. I know you, and I like you. I don't know what any of this means, but I do know that I trust you, and...I'd rather have you be the one helping me figure this out than some stranger."

“Natasha—”

“I’m not saying it’s a thing! We can have whatever rules or boundaries you want. But I _just_ came, and I’m tired, and I feel like maybe I could get some sleep. So I want to do that, please, and then I want to go eat whatever weird breakfast haggis Steve has them making. And when we get back to New York, maybe we can figure out...safewords, or whatever. Can we just not, right now?”

Natasha wasn’t sure she’d ever said that much at once—at least not when she was barely post-orgasmic. But fuck, it was the truth. Good sex could be good sex, and they could figure out the rest later.

“Is...well,” Peggy hesitated. “If that’s really what you want.”

“That’s really, really, really what I want.”

“Then you’ll have to return my texts when we get back to New York, eh?” Peggy said, fingers brushing across her side softly enough that it made Natasha squirm. “No ignoring me.”

“Yes,” Natasha said, before considering. “Although…”

“What?”

“We _do_ have three more days left here before we have to go home. I’m uh...there’s nothing saying we can’t keep...hanging out on vacation, too?”

Peggy snorted, hooking her chin over the top of Natasha’s head and sighing. “I suppose you’ll be expecting me to come up with some ground rules for our stay, then?”

A nervous little flutter went through Natasha, and she grinned. “Sure, maybe. What kind of rules?”

“Like…” Peggy considered, her hand sliding down to give Natasha’s ass a squeeze through her shorts. “You absolutely, one hundred percent may _not_ wear knickers under your dress today. The rest, I’ll figure out after breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has jumped on board the good ship PeggyNat and is currently steaming away from the harbor with me. I've had a few asks about this, so let me clarify here and now: yes, these two will have their own story. I'm hoping to write it in a way that doesn't necessitate knowing everything about the PI universe, so if there are folks out there who just want to read the PeggyNat, you won't need the preceding million parts. 
> 
> I am so excited to share this, but the fantabulously talented [Kelsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelsey_fantasy) has done a scorching hot moodboard for these two. Like, hooboy.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky woke with a mouth on his cock.

Steve’s mouth, he had to assume, as he blinked his way into consciousness, brain registering nothing more than _warm-wet-ohfuuuuuuuck_. Reaching out a hand, he caught a fistful of blond hair. So, yeah. Steve. Good morning, Steve.

The whole hair-grabbing thing led Steve to realize that Bucky was awake, and that realization turned something gentle into something much more intense, his tongue performing early-morning miracles as his big hands moved to pin Bucky to the mattress.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, releasing his hold on Steve’s hair to drag a pillow over his face, being as he didn’t want to wake the neighbors. Who happened to be his parents.

Steve was an old pro at getting him off, so it didn’t take long, Bucky’s thighs tensing and hips jerking. As was his wont, Steve swallowed every drop, taking the time to lick Bucky clean afterward—so much so that he started squirming from the overstimulation.

“Steve— _Steve_ ,” he protested, tossing the pillow to one side and using his knees and arms both to haul his not-quite-husband to eye level, kissing him deeply once he had him there. Tasted like spunk, but that was okay. Bucky probably tasted like stale alcohol.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Steve murmured. 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky agreed, his left hand sliding down Steve’s back to cup his ass, shifting their positions until he felt the length of Steve’s dick pressed against his thigh. “Oh hey, look at that—”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, rolling his hips experimentally to give himself a bit of friction. “Roll over, huh?”

Bucky complied, arranging himself on his stomach, prick angled so it wouldn’t rub much against the mattress and thighs pressed together so Steve could slip between them with the assistance of some lubrication. Doing it this way wasn’t quite the same as having Steve _inside_ him, but it was efficient, and the intimacy was there—Steve kissing his shoulder, biting his neck, pinning his hands above his head as Bucky squeezed his legs together to make things as tight as he possibly could.

When Steve came, only a few minutes later, he coated both Bucky’s inner thighs and the sheets below with his spend. Predictably, neither of them had thought to grab a towel. They’d have to tip really, really well.

Panting slightly, Steve collapsed atop him, pinning Bucky to the mattress and giving him a full body squeeze before rolling them both over. It took a bit of maneuvering, but finally, Steve settled, sitting against the headboard while Bucky nestled between his splayed legs.

“Oh, hi,” Bucky grinned, content to use Steve’s still rapidly rising-and-falling stomach as a pillow. “You’re messy.”

"Little bit," he agreed, taking the opportunity to give Bucky's right nipple a not-so-gentle pinch.

“Ow, quit,” he squirmed, returning the pinch with one of his own to a part of Steve’s inner thigh that was precariously close to his balls. No doubt playing with fire, but he felt pretty sure he could get away with it on this, the day of their wedding.

“You quit.” Steve nudged him higher, arms tightening around his torso and chin resting on Bucky’s shoulder. In for a penny, Steve then proceeded to go full weirdo, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist and forcing a full body hug. What a sap. “We’re getting married today.”

“Yup.”

“I was reading this thing about how, statistically, a lot of couples don’t get to fuck on their wedding day. Because they’re so busy.”

“Oh.”

“So...wanted to check that box.” 

Unexpectedly touched, Bucky grinned and turned his head to kiss Steve’s cheek. (And really, wasn’t that their entire relationship? Steve Rogers: Unexpectedly Touching. Which was only half a euphemism!) “You’re sweet,” he replied. “I didn’t see it on the schedule.”

Steve muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “not on _that_ schedule,” and Bucky cackled.

“I wanna see your sex schedule,” he said, once he’d recovered.

“If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.”

“I love you so much, weirdo.”

“Love me in the shower,” Steve said, releasing him with a swat on the flank to get him moving. “We have to be downstairs in fifteen.”

* * *

Nine o’clock was not an unreasonable hour for breakfast, or so Steve had assumed. Yet, when he and Bucky arrived bang on the hour (having taken a very quick-and-not-at-all-sexy shower), they found the event sparsely attended. Sure, the over-fifties were there, along with parents of small children, but the vast majority of the singles didn’t start trickling in until nearly nine-thirty.

That included one Margaret Carter, who breezed through the doors at nine thirty-seven, in fact, wearing a pair of dark grey slacks and a white blouse with nary a hair out of place. She was trailed by a disheveled Natasha in track pants and a hoodie.

Huh.

“See,” Bucky hissed, mouth full of scone as he elbowed Steve in the side.

“What?”

“They came in _together_.”

“Sure, Buck.”

“They’re fucking!”

“Sure, Buck.”

“You are so...okay, _look_. I’m not making this up!”

Truth be told, it was suspicious, and any idiot might have made assumptions, given Peggy and Nat’s proximity. But there were _stakes_ to be thought of, and Bucky had no proof. “Yeah, you’re definitely not projecting weird ideas onto our friends in the interest of winning a bet, pal. You’d never do that.”

“I don’t even care about the bet! That’s her sex face. I _know_ her sex face. Look how much she’s smiling!”

Natasha _did_ look remarkably cheery, despite her unkempt appearance. Laughing with Peggy as they moved through the buffet line. Putting a hand on her arm. Sitting down with her at a table and...nope. No. Bucky was getting in his head. “That is _not_ a sex face. How do you even know what her sex face looks like?”

"We lived together," he said like Steve was an idiot.

“I wasn’t aware you made a habit of trading sex faces.”

“Oh my God, Steve. Why did they come in together if they weren’t coming from the same place?”

“Maybe Peggy went to wake Nat up?”

“Why would Peggy even think to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Steve gritted. “Because they’re friends?”

“Not really. Anyway, even if that _was_ what happened, Peggy would have been here way earlier. She’s a nerd about punctuality, like you.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” Steve took an annoyed bite of his potatoes and sighed. Bucky _did_ have a point, and his arguments were at least plausible. But again: no proof, and a bet was a bet. “Maybe Peggy’s just relaxing. It _is_ her vacation. C’mon, you know as well as I do that walking in together isn’t evidence…”

“I want to extend the bet.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “We said until the wedding. It’s the wedding. You lose.”

“I need more time to gather proof!”

“You’ve had months!”

Bucky’s lower lip shook as he deployed a weapons-grade pout. “Please?”

God damn it. Steve sighed. “How much longer do you need?”

“Two months?”

Steve pretended to consider his options, though he knew in his heart he'd already been suckered into acquiescence by those ridiculously blue eyes. All the same, he _could_ press his advantage; that was half the fun. “Fine. Two months, but you owe me a marginal forfeit.”

“What the fuck is a marginal forfeit?”

“Something I just made up. If we’re gonna extend the bet, you have to do something I want, that you... _don’t_ want.”

“How is that different from the bet?”

“It’s...I said so, is how.”

“Oh. Well then, by that logic I’m forced to say yes. What’s the forfeit?”

Steve hesitated. Once again, the problem of coming up with things Bucky hated reared its ugly head. But hey, it was their wedding day. He could afford to be magnanimous—one hated chore, versus something they’d both enjoy. “You can either scrub the grout in the guest bathroom with a toothbrush once we get home, or...I guess maybe you’re not allowed to wear clothes for our entire honeymoon.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face. “Wait, is that _feasible_?”

Being that Steve hadn’t told Bucky a thing about their honeymoon, it was a reasonable question. However, the forfeit would, in fact, be eminently feasible in their private, expensive, relaxing surprise destination. So, he smiled. “Yes.”

“Then that’s what I want.”

“Really?” he teased. “Two weeks, no clothes? You don’t even know where we’re _going,_ Buck. I said feasible, not comfortable—what if there’s snow?”

“I don’t care. I want that.”

“Yeah?” he laughed. “Alright then. No clothes. That’s your forfeit.”

“Awesome.” Bucky hesitated. “How is that a _forfeit_ , though?”

A fair question—Bucky liked being naked more than wearing clothes. Instead of an answer, Steve leaned over and kissed him. "I'll figure out how to make you regret it later."

“Deal.”

“And I mean it—two months to get your proof.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Sure you will.”

“And like, even if I don’t? I can get on board with this marginal forfeit thing.”

Steve was genuinely the luckiest motherfucker in the galaxy.

* * *

Naively, Bucky had assumed that hair and makeup didn’t include him. Because he didn’t wear makeup, and his hair was just fine, thanks so much. Yet, promptly at ten, he was shoved into a room alongside Natasha, his sisters, and his parents. Ostensibly it was for pre-wedding bonding time, but that bonding also included a manicure and a neck massage (which, okay, he wasn’t complaining about _that_ ).

His sisters, predictably, were in heaven. Or, well, Becca was enjoying the facial, Freddie the chance to choose a sparkly polish, and Rachel the opportunity to chatter endlessly about how they were going to see Edinburgh Castle before they went home. So, about standard. His mother, meanwhile, was super into the mimosas, and his father had fallen back on his favorite past-time of asking Bucky questions he didn’t know the answer to, such as, “did you see where I left my glasses?” and, “what time do you think I’ll have to give my speech?”

Around noon, having been driven suitably insane by his family, he grabbed Natasha by the hand and dragged her into a corner, ostensibly to discuss her best-friend duties. It was a weak excuse, but he needed the respite.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “How was _your_ night?”

“Oh, fine,” she replied, leaning against the wall with such nonchalance that Bucky knew she was lying.

“Wonderful. How’s Peggy?”

Someone ought to have nominated Natasha for an Oscar considering the look she gave him then. Blithe and uncaring, with confusion peppered on top. “I’m sure she’s fine. How should I know?”

“You two looked kind of cozy at breakfast.”

“What?”

“Just...you were sitting with her. And laughing.”

“I’ve been known to laugh.”

“You came in together.”

“I ran into her in the hallway.”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s with the interrogation, anyway?”

“No reason, just…” he shrugged. “I mean, I know you liked her. Back before—”

“That was before.”

“Yeah, but—”

“She’s not my type.”

“Scary isn’t your type? I thought you were into that now.”

Natasha offered him a tight smile, which made him feel the tiniest bit guilty for teasing. “It’s not that. I’m just not...looking for anything serious yet. You know that.”

The tiny bit of guilt blossomed into something overwhelming, and Bucky frowned. Because what kind of an asshole teased his somewhat-recently-single best friend about her sex life on the day he was getting married? “Shit, Nat. I’m sorry. If you want to talk—”

“We fooled around a little,” she blurted. “Peggy and I. A couple times now. But it’s nothing—it doesn’t mean…” she hesitated. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I can’t keep shit from you.”

Holy crap. Bet won. Sort of. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

“I don’t, really,” she admitted. “Not yet. And ah,” she reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Not to change the subject…”

“But you’re totally changing the subject.” Which he could understand, even if he had a million and five questions about what, precisely, had transpired between her and Peggy. He could respect her wishes, though. For now.

“Yeah, well,” she said. “I’m not the best with this sort of thing. But, you know I love you, right?”

“Nat—”

“And I’m grateful. I know I’m not…” she waved her hand around. “This whole thing isn’t my scene. But it’s yours now. You’re marrying this person who can give you everything, and that’s amazing, Bucky. I’m really happy for you. Mostly, though, I’m grateful that you didn’t let all of this...change you?” She trailed off, shrugging, and as Bucky looked closer, he swore he could see tears in her eyes.

His Natasha! Crying!

"Every time I see you now," she continued, clearing her throat. "You're that much more yourself, and that's how I know that this is the right thing for you and that Steve's exactly who you need. So I guess, if there's a best friend blessing, I'm giving it. And...yeah."

“Tasha,” he managed, a lump forming in his own throat as he pulled her into a hug, letting her press her recently made-up face against his chest. “I love you, too.”

“Gross,” she said after a minute, her voice muffled and making him laugh.

“You’re gross,” he replied, releasing her from the embrace. “Thanks. Sorry I made you cry.”

“Fuck off,” she said. “I’m not crying. You are.”

“Yeah, probably. But I cry all the time. I’m very sensitive.”

“No shit. Hey uh, are you gonna tell Steve about the Peggy thing?”

Bucky honestly hadn’t thought about it, aside from mentally acknowledging that he’d won the fucking bet. But, well, he didn’t keep secrets from Steve, so he shrugged. “Um, probably?”

“Okay. That’s...yeah. It’s...sure.”

“Do you not want me to?”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. He’s your husband.”

“What if I didn’t tell him for a little while?” he offered. That way he could enjoy his oh-so-terrible-forfeit before revealing the truth. “At least not today.”

“Really?” she said. “That’s...thanks, Bucky.”

“Sure thing,” he agreed, only to be interrupted by a clatter. The two of them jumped, startled, and turned to find the source of the noise, which ended up being Rachel, who had accidentally knocked an entire tray of cosmetics to the ground, creating both a stain on an antique rug and a story that would be retold at family events for years.

The fiasco turned into an uproar as they all scrambled to retrieve open bottles and containers. Rachel, mortified, began apologizing profusely, eventually bursting into tears. This led to Bucky drawing her away from the disaster and reassuring her that it was fine, that she hadn’t ruined his wedding, and that he still loved her very much.

Being sixteen was tough.

Once the day had been saved, and everyone was sufficiently buffed and polished, Bucky was whisked to a secondary location to get dressed. This involved an actual _tailor_ standing by for last minute adjustments. (Predictably over the top, and wholly unnecessary, as he hadn’t eaten _that_ much food since arriving.) All the same, the gesture was sweet, and it made Bucky miss Steve, even though they'd only been apart for a few hours. He didn't have much longer to wait, though—half an hour later he was stepping into a waiting room off the entryway to the main hall where the ceremony was taking place. They'd decided early on that there would be no churches or chapels; neither of them was particularly religious, and Steve had some issues with the entire concept of God sanctioning anything about their union.

They’d also put the kibosh on anyone giving anyone else away, choosing instead to walk down the aisle together. It made sense to do it that way, Bucky figured, because they _were_ together. He didn't belong to his parents any more than Steve belonged to his much-mourned mother. The two of them had made a choice to be together, to marry, and to build a life. They didn't need external validation for that.

A few minutes after Bucky’s arrival in the waiting room, Steve pushed open the door, wearing a matching dark grey tux, handsome as motherfucking ever. God, it had been a while since Bucky had seen him so fancified. He’d forgotten how much it suited him.

“Hi,” Steve greeted as Bucky got to his feet. “Wow, Buck, you look—”

“Ditto. That’s uh...your tux fits.”

“It does,” he agreed, crossing the room and taking Bucky by both biceps, leaning down to plant a kiss on him. “How was everything? You feeling alright?”

"I'm good," he laughed, bringing his hands to Steve's elbows and stroking down his forearms to calm some of the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. "How about you?"

“Good, yeah. I’m good. Everything’s—you should see Sharon and Peg, honestly. Million bucks. And hey, how about your sisters? They like their hair?”

“Everything was perfect,” he replied, barely able to get the words out. The freight train that was Steve Rogers in full ramble slowed for no one.

“Sam and Nat have the rings, I already checked. And the twins have their baskets, so they’re good. I think the photographer’s all set and—”

“Hey,” Bucky broke in. “Remember how we had the rehearsal yesterday?”

Surprised, Steve nodded. “Sure.”

“So we’re good. We got this. Everything else…” he shrugged, leaning in to give Steve a kiss that he hoped was suffused with brightness and optimism. “It’s all gravy. I’m already halfway down the aisle in my head.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I love you.”

A smile lit Steve’s face. “I love you, too.”

“Good to know. Wanna go get married?”

“Might as well.”

They left the waiting room hand-in-hand, meeting with the rest of the party accompanying them down the aisle just outside the double doors. Everything, mercifully, was going according to plan. The head usher—Freddie, fulfilling her role with aplomb—got their go-ahead before things got started with a string quartet playing something classical Bucky couldn't place. The twins were up first, and while yes, they were a _bit_ too old to be flower-anythings, they looked charming in their outfits.

(Plus, when they got halfway down the aisle, and Riley tripped over a piece of carpet, blamed it on her brother, and dumped her flowers on his head? Fucking hilarious, even if Steve’s grip on Bucky’s hand tightened like a vice.

Bucky squeezed right back, a grin on his face. Having kids with Steve was going to be great—he’d have to perfect his poker face, though, so as not to laugh hysterically every time something went off the rails and ruined some perfectly laid Steve plan. Which, he’d gathered from watching Sam and Sharon, was ninety percent of having children. The other ten percent was cleaning up shit, literal and figurative.)

Nat and Sam went next, as mandated by their official Friend-of-Honor positions. Arm in arm, they stepped stiff-backed down the aisle like a pair of show ponies, regal and ridiculous. Which, obviously, was them giving their wholly-ceremonial position its due, and not them being shitheads who had rehearsed a Very Solemn Walk in advance without telling anyone they were doing so.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered. “Fuckin’ comedians, both of ‘em.”

“And we love them.”

“Do we?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re up.”

The music changed in anticipation of their entrance, the traditional giving way to an instrumental version of an old Dire Straits song that had been a favorite of Steve's mother. They'd wanted to include her in the wedding somehow, and given that her death was one of Steve's few remaining open wounds, they'd gone for subtle rather than showy. Whoever had composed the arrangement had done an excellent job, and as they started down the aisle together, Bucky gave Steve's fingers an extra squeeze.

People stood as they entered the hall, which was...well, it was weird. Nice, but more attention than Bucky liked to draw to himself. Becca had stepped into the aisle to take pictures, thereby blocking the photographer, and his mother was sobbing openly, which was both sweet and disconcerting, given that she wasn’t much of a cryer at all. Then again, he _was_ the first of her children to get married, so maybe she was entitled.

The individual faces blurred as they drew closer to the front, Bucky's heart beginning to thump away in his chest. It wasn't nerves, exactly, because he had nothing to be nervous about. Instead, it was that same queasy, shaky sensation that overtook him whenever he had to give a speech or present to a crowd. He swallowed, seeking out Steve's face as they turned to look at one another, grounding himself in the expression he found there: calm and utter surety about the path forward.

Bucky smiled and bit his lip, anxiety quelled. Steve gave him a wink, just as the officiant began to speak.

Said officiant was a lovely, local woman whom neither of them had met before the prior evening's rehearsal. This had been a deliberate choice, as picking someone they knew to perform the ceremony would have led to bad jokes and one-liners at best, impromptu singalongs at worse. (Clint, for example, had offered to get ordained for the occasion and had been legitimately upset when Bucky turned him down.) They'd also chosen to keep the ceremony itself short and straightforward. After all, most people were just there for the party. As for the vows, they'd decided against traditional, and while they'd bandied about the idea of trying to find songs or poems that meant something, in the end they'd settled on writing a brief speech. Bucky had been into the idea at first, figuring that he was a decent enough writer when it came to press releases and case reports. Yet, when he sat down to write words that would convey the depth of his feelings for Steve? Yeah, not so much with the decent.

So, he’d done the best he could, and while the end result wasn’t going to change the Western canon, it was honest, which was enough.

“I ah…” he began, holding tight to the creased paper he’d pulled from his breast pocket, words swimming and reforming, blurring together until, once again, he looked at Steve and found him waiting, an anchor in the storm. “When I met you, I didn’t have a lot of faith in myself. I would start things, or I’d think about starting them but never actually do it. I guess that’s because I was always worried I couldn’t finish. That I wasn’t good enough, or smart enough, or that I’d fail, so why bother trying? But you have always had this unshakeable faith that I can do anything, whether that’s running a marathon, or getting my master’s. You believe in me with your whole heart, which I know is such a cliche thing to say…”

So focused was he on his words that the laughter they elicited from the room took him by surprise. A quick glance into the crowd, though, found most people smiling. And okay, sure, it _was_ a cliche thing to say. But it was his cliche, damn it.

"You don't do anything by half measures," he continued with a smile, finding his place on the page. "I love that about you. I love that you're larger than life and that you make _my_ life better by being that way. You challenge me, and you push me to be better. Not by forcing me, but by believing that I _can_ be. That I can achieve great things. Knowing that, it makes me want to. And I'm so glad that I have you, and that we're getting married so you can keep challenging me for my whole life. I love you."

His voice shook briefly on the last few words, hands refolding the paper as he let out a shaky sigh. Vows spoken, though, and he’d kept his shit together!

Which made it all the more shocking when he looked up to find Steve with tear tracks shining on his cheeks, eyes bright as a flush crept onto his face.

Weddings were amazing.

* * *

Steve was crying. This fact was mortifying but undeniable. Whatever stalwart little Dutch boy keeping a finger in the dike of his emotional stability had fucked off the moment Bucky started talking about loving him for being larger than life. And now? There he was. Crying. In public.

And those tears? They were. Not. Stopping.

Not when Bucky’s speech drew to an end.

Not when Bucky looked up and went wide-eyed at finding Steve on the verge of a sob.

Not even when the officiant asked for Steve’s vows in return.

“I—” he began, throat closing on him like he was an eight-year-old with asthma all over again. “I—”

Christ. His face was burning, and his ears were hot, and he couldn't remember word one of the vows. He'd worked really hard to memorize them, too, because he wanted to be able to look at Bucky when he told him how important he was. But right then? No words. No speeches. It was all he could do to keep standing.

Fuck, crying was _awful_. He hated it. Hated the sniffling and the watery eyes and the way his goddamn body had chosen to betray him at the exact moment he needed to keep his shit together.

“I—” he tried again, only this time the attempt ended with a heaving, gasping sob that reverberated like a goose honk on steroids through the high-ceilinged hall.

Bucky, having recovered from his shock, stepped closer, taking Steve’s hands in his own. “Hey,” he murmured, quietly enough that the conversation was just between them. “Whatever you’re gonna tell me, I guarantee I already know. So just say it, huh? Don’t worry about anyone else.”

The noose of emotion that had tightened around his throat loosened a fraction at Bucky’s words, and Steve nodded, taking a deep breath before trying again. “I love you,” he said, voice barely audible as he scrambled for the words. “My whole life? I didn’t have a life, because of...and you just...um, when I met you? You were this...force of nature. And you came barreling in and…” Sucking in a breath, he shook his head. “Fuck, this is coming out all wrong.”

There was a gasp from somewhere in the crowd, and Bucky grinned, raising an eyebrow. “You just said fuck at our wedding, Steve.”

“Damn it,” he swore again with a half-laugh, half-sob. “I forgot this whole part about how you make me want to be a better person.”

“That’s a little much,” Bucky said with a wry grin. “But thanks.”

“I’m kinda falling apart over here, pal,” he managed. “These are terrible vows.”

“Nah. They’re your vows, and they’re you all over.”

“Buck—”

“What was the last line?”

“What?”

“The last line, what was it?”

“Uh…” Steve furrowed his brow. “That you’ve given me endless possibilities, and that I love you and I can’t wait to start opening doors with you? There were a lot of door metaphors…”

“I love you so much,” Bucky whispered, leaning forward to kiss him. “And I love your vows.”

Returning the kiss, Steve mentally forgave himself for the fuckup. After all, his husband didn’t seem to mind.

“Are we ready?” the officiant asked them after a moment, as though the entire debacle _hadn’t_ just happened. Steve had to commend her comportment, but then, she’d probably dealt with more than a few sobbing grooms in her day.

“We’re ready,” Bucky said. Steve chanced a quick look at the crowd, some of whom were holding in laughter, while others were no doubt scandalized over the errant fuck. Which: whatever, as Bucky might say. They’d gotten a free trip to Scotland. They could cope with a little cursing.

“Do we have the rings?” the officiant requested.

Sam and Natasha stepped forward, each with an identical band. That portion of the ceremony, at least, went according to plan—a simultaneous exchange, sealed with a kiss.

And then? They were married. Which was honestly anticlimactic after all that buildup. Steve wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen—some divine blessing, perhaps? Angels and saints descending to sing their praises? Or hell, maybe a sudden sense of peace, and a newfound understanding of the world?

Wasn’t any of that, though. It was just Bucky, same as it always had been.

* * *

Mere minutes after the ceremony concluded, Bucky found himself being shepherded outside for photographs. Far be it from a Steve Rogers agenda to pause for something as negligible as nuptials; Bucky hadn’t even had the opportunity to fully absorb the moment before they were on to the next thing. But then, that was who he’d married.

Fate had given them a temperate day with clear blue skies and a noticeable lack of drizzle, which made the photo shoot much more bearable. There were family shots, friend shots, shots with just his sisters, shots with him and his parents, shots with him and Steve and his parents, Steve and his sisters, Nat and Sam and Bucky and Steve and...it was never-ending.

(Meanwhile, the guests who _weren’t_ involved in the photographs had been allowed to attend the pre-reception cocktail hour.

Bucky really wanted a cocktail. And an hour.)

Finally, when all the shots had been snapped, he and Steve were given a brief reprieve in a waiting room just outside the reception hall. This was so that the wedding party could get drinks and find their tables before Steve and Bucky were Officially Announced fifteen minutes later. Wasn’t much time, but Bucky would take what he could get.

“Hi,” he said, throwing his arms around Steve’s neck the moment the door shut behind them.

“Hi,” Steve laughed, catching him mid-swoon, hands falling to the small of his back.

“You _cried_.”

“Buck…”

“You _cried_ , and I _didn’t_. I just want that like...on a plaque somewhere. From now, until the day I die, I’m gonna know that you cried at our wedding, and I didn’t. Shit, you _never_ cry.” Or, at least, never more than an uber-manly varietal of tears involving barely dampened eyes. The awe-inspiring array of sobs and sniffles that had transpired during their vows was something else entirely.

“Thanks, pal. I was really hoping nobody noticed.”

“Oh, no, _everybody_ noticed,” he said, wanting to be reassuring.

“Greeeeat.”

“And, I mean, you had the three different videographers taping the ceremony, so we can get a cut from multiple angles, and—ow!” Yelping, he twisted out of the way when Steve’s fingers caught hold of his backside and gave a pinch.

“You wanna keep teasing me, or you wanna make out with your husband until we have to go in there?”

“Wow, marriage is full of tough choices.”

“Bucky, I swear to God.”

Grinning, Bucky leaned in and kissed him.

Ten minutes later, with two pairs of kiss bitten lips and at least one ass that had received a few additional pinches, the two of them made their utterly dignified and not-at-all giggly debut in front of friends and family. It was, much like everything else about their wedding, ostentatious and excessive, but Bucky had long since surrendered himself to the madness. As he let Steve tug him onto the dance floor for the official first dance of the afternoon, he was pretty sure he'd never been happier.

It was an excellent party, with several open bars and enough food to feed everyone in attendance ten times over. There were speeches and toasts, and as the afternoon turned into the evening, Bucky's lips had gone numb both from kissing Steve and the magical champagne glass in his possession, which seemed to always be full. After dinner, there was more dancing, everyone loose-limbed and happy as they swung around the floor. Bucky took a turn with his mother and all of his sisters, as well as dancing two songs with Natasha, whom he kissed on the cheek before passing to Peggy, who just _happened_ to be hovering nearby.

As one of the grooms, though, he had additional duties that weren’t so much fun as drinking and dancing—namely, going around to every table with Steve and greeting the guests. Most people were very congratulatory, but Steve was admonished by no fewer than two of Bucky’s relations for his “language” during the ceremony.

“Very disappointed in you,” Bucky whispered as they left the table which housed his recently born-again cousin.

“I thought you said nobody in your family was religious!”

“He wasn’t when we invited him. Hey, I’m starving.”

“Because you keep dancing instead of eating. Sit down, I’ll snag us some cake.”

Bucky did as he was told, eating the cake Steve put in front of him and enjoying the brief respite from the chaos. It didn’t last long—Steve got pulled into a conversation with Pepper and Peggy, while Freddie asked him if he’d dance with her one more time. He suspected, and was proven right once they were out on the floor, that the dance was a ploy to put Freddie in Pietro Maximoff’s sightline, as she’d spent most of the previous evening trying to flirt with him. Pietro didn’t seem interested, but Bucky had to give her props for persistence, even if he was secretly relieved that it would likely come to nothing.

The two of them were inching ever-closer to Wanda and Pietro’s table when Bucky felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Steve holding a plate of shrimp puffs. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” Freddie agreed, not bothering to glance in their direction as she released her hold and went traipsing towards the twins, buoyed by at least three gin and tonics.

“Bye, Fred!” he called to her retreating back, before taking a shrimp puff from Steve. “Oh my God, how did you know I needed these?”

“I thought you could use a little protein before we go,” he said, looping one arm around Bucky’s waist so they could sway.

Bucky, speaking around the puff, raised an eyebrow. “Go?”

Steve leaned back, lest he be sprayed with crumbs because Bucky was a charming and delightful person. "Clock's striking twelve, Cinderella. We got a flight to catch."

“We do?”

“Uh huh. Your bags are all packed—car’s waiting outside.”

Steve! With the surprises! He loved Steve. “That’s...okay, sure,” he agreed. “Do we have time to say goodbye?”

Shocking absolutely no-one, Steve had built twenty minutes of leeway into the schedule for goodbyes, as well as changing out of their tuxes. As they pulled away from the castle, friends and family spilled out the front door behind them, sending them off in a cloud of well-wishes.

“Good wedding,” Bucky said, dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder as the car passed under the gates.

“Wasn’t bad.”

Cuddling close, Bucky did his best to stay awake for the drive, but it was dark, and he was pleasantly buzzed from the evening. So, as usual, he dropped right off. When Steve nudged him awake, though, he was surprised to discover that they weren’t at the big, international airport, but instead at a private airfield, where a jet lay waiting. Which was...yeah, that seemed about right, although Bucky needled Steve endlessly as they were shown onto the sleek, white plane that he suspected belonged to Tony Stark

“You rented a _jet_ just to avoid telling me where we’re going?”

“No. I _borrowed_ a jet because this is a really, really long flight.”

That bit of information in no way helped Bucky narrow down the possibilities. Steve hadn’t been kidding about long, though—they slept a full eight hours before eating breakfast over what Bucky had to assume was the Atlantic Ocean. When they landed, many hours after that, he had no idea what time it was, or what day, or where in the world Steve had brought him. All he knew was that there was a tropical breeze on his face when stepped off the plane.

And a helicopter. There was also a helicopter.

“Is that uh, ours?”

“Well, it’s _for_ us, yeah,” Steve said, placing one hand in the small of his back to shepherd him forward.

Steve, the king of introducing Bucky to new experiences, had outdone himself. The helicopter ride was insane—forty-five minutes flying over clear, blue tropical seas, broken by what the pilot said were coral reefs. There were also a few islands dotted here and there, some populated and some barren. Bucky assumed they were headed for one of the populated ones—a resort, maybe, something remote and intimate. 

Instead, when the helicopter began its descent, it was to a tiny island. One which boasted a big house in the center and nothing else, as far as the eye could see.

Welp. That explained the nudity forfeit.

This was the absolute height of nonsense, and far more than either of them deserved. But…well, shit. The house? The pool? The private dock and the miles of endless ocean? How was he going to say no to that?

“It’s a bit much,” Steve admitted once they were alone in the house, the pilot having taken his leave. (And yes, there was a staff, but they had their _own_ island, natch.)

“You? A bit much?” Bucky grinned. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, by the way…”

“What?”

“Honeymoon’s officially started, and you’ve still got clothes on.”

“Oh shit.”

Steve tutted and took a step forward. “Look at that, starting our marriage off on the wrong foot. What am I gonna do with you?”

Bucky shrugged, tugging his shirt over his head. He wasn’t sure, but he was willing to bet Steve had some creative ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone, and a merry honeymoon to Steve and Bucky. Thank you all so much for reading, and a special thanks to everyone who took a chance on the original _Proprietary Information_ when I was just starting out in this fandom - this one is really for y'all. My apologies for any errors; the chapter has seen a beta, but I initially edited it while battling the stomach flu because I wanted to get it posted on schedule, so God knows what I slipped in there.
> 
> This universe, as always, remains an open playground, and in addition to the PeggyNat story, I'll undoubtedly write more for these goobers in the future. However, I have some big plans for 2019 in terms of other fic, so I make no guarantees as to timeliness. If you're interested in the other things I write, subscribing to me as an author on AO3 is the best way to keep abreast of what I'm doing. Tumblr is a tire fire these days, and who knows what's going on elsewhere, but if you do want to hang out on social, you can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort. 
> 
> Finally, another big thank you to [daphneblithe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphneblithe) and [Kelsey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelsey_fantasy) for their lovely artwork on this series. Kelsey has wrapped things up with a lovely moodboard for the entire story, which you can see above, and is giving me All The Big Feelings. Castles and islands and wish fulfillment, oh boy!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart: Mergers and Acquisitions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819918) by [Kelsey_Fantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelsey_Fantasy/pseuds/Kelsey_Fantasy)




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